


Keep Your Secrets

by Laurelgand



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: After the first few chapters anyway, And that fact that he's not romanceable, Angst, Disabled Sole Survivor, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I have a lot of feelings about Deacon, Identity Issues, Lots and lots of lying, Lots of terrible flirting while incognito, Slow Burn, Smut, This is going to be a long fic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, spoilers everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurelgand/pseuds/Laurelgand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chronicles of Sol being anyone but herself and stepping into battles she probably shouldn't be. Romance, gun fights, shitty puns, and enough sarcasm to drop an elephant. </p><p>Main story & faction spoilers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter's Breath

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about fallout 4 in general tbh, and I hope you enjoy reading Sol's terrible run of it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know if I missed any mistakes! I'll add on warnings as I need to c: 
> 
> Angst & Death in this chapter!

**_“…. Vault residents must evacuate immediately…”_ **

            All sense in the world had vanished. The hatch to the cryopod hissed—it sounded angry to be releasing her, freeing from her icy prison—And opened, leaving her nothing to lean her limp body against. Seconds later she collapsed to the floor in a heap of heavy limbs, but the pain of her shoulder colliding with the metal floor barely registered. The world spun sickeningly. She tried to push herself up, arms shaking violently, but only managed to rise a few inches and then collapsed once more, gasping for air.

            The fog of a long, deep sleep began to lift from her mind. She wished it would have stayed, kept the memories behind a hazy curtain of numbness and apathy. Sol _remembered_ , and _fuck_ , did she want to forget. A lump rose in her throat, stinging heat blurred her eyes, and grief stole her breath.

            “Nate…” She whispered, voice breaking sharply. Sol raised her head to stare at the pod in front of her. There was blood spattered all around the inside, frozen black and sticking to her husband’s face. And clothes. And—

_God_ , it was all over him. The first sob broke from her throat, leaving her feeling raw and aching. There was a tightness in her chest that only grew tighter by the second. He was—They were—All they’d had in the world. Each other, just the two of them against everything else. And when two had become three, it was as if life had finally given her what she wanted.

            _It was her fault. She’d wanted more. She should have been happy with that she had, how could she been so greedy—_

            Sol was crying in earnest now, tears washing away what remained of the old world on her face. She would do anything to escape this feeling, this _horrible fucking feeling_ that settled in the center of her chest like a lead weight. It felt as though nothing would ever be right again, like she would never be able to stand and walk without remembering those moments.

            A ragged gasp passed her lips as she recalled the gunshot, a terrible crack that filled that air. She keened when she remembered, distinctly, the sound of his last breath. It had happened at the exact moment his head crashed back against the pod’s interior. Sol had raged at the man with the gun, fists pounding on the glass until—

            _“Nate!” She shrieked, slamming her fists against the glass one final time. Already bruises bloomed on her hands, but she paid no mind. She couldn’t take her eyes off the blood. It was red. So red, red, red—She was going to be sick, all over the glass porthole of the pod. It wasn’t real, wasn’t happening—If only she could just wake up!_

_His voice sounded like he drank whiskey and glass, followed by a cigarette, for breakfast. It crawled across her skin and she’d never hated a person more in her life than she hated this man right now. But she’d also never felt more sure of anything in her life either. Sol was going to kill this man, watch his red, red, red blood run away, and then—_

_Shaun._

_The heat of her rage faded quickly and the cold grip of fear spread down her spine, panic rising in throat. Sol could feel her heartbeat, racing, hammering, in every part on her body and she broke out in a cold sweat, pressing close to the hatch when she noticed the woman in the hazmat suit._

_The woman with Shaun. The woman walking away. She could do nothing but watch in utter horror as her child was stolen. Suddenly the mechanical voice of the pod was speaking again, and she was panicking for an entirely different reason. The countdown began—_

_5…_

_Sol threw herself back against the padded rear of the pod, hands flying to brace herself on the closing walls. This wasn’t happening again—_

_4…_

_She looked around frantically for something, anything, that would stop the onset of sleep. There had to be a button, an emergency release!_

_3…_

_“No, no, no—“ She whispered, voice cracking, “Goddamnit, open!” She screeched, as though it follow her commands and swing open, open like her husband’s pod, open like his head—_

_2…_

_Sol screwed her eyes shut and grit her teeth, waiting for what she knew would come. The pod hissed ominously and the air felt thicker, cooler, and she felt… Hazy. It was almost a comfort. The building pain in her heart had eased, for a moment, then—_

_1…_

_… She knew only darkness…._

 

            Sol wrenched herself from the memories, trying to keep herself from drowning in that pool of grief. She didn’t know how long she laid on the floor, letting the ice on her vault suit melt and soak the material. Sirens blared and that _damn_ voice kept telling her to leave, _to go_. The image of her son flashed in her mind and it was enough to liven her limbs.

            Shakily, she pushed herself upright. Then Sol braced herself on her Nate’s tomb to pull herself up, nearly losing herself once more when she spotted his face. With tears falling anew, she uncertainly reached for the glass of his pod, but stopped short. If she touched the glass, it made all of this real. And if all of this was real…

            Sol placed her hand hesitantly on the glass and sobbed when she made contact, “Oh God, Nate—“ She whispered, searching his features for any sigh of life. There was nothing. There was so much blood inside, so, so much—He was dead. Sol knew that, she knew that when that monster fired his gun. But this made it real. She stood there for several moments before she found the courage to lift the switch to his pod. It hissed—she was starting to hate that fucking sound—and opened upward.

            When she turned back to face him, she half-expected him to hop out, proclaiming, “ _Oh man, that guy has terrible aim, babe. I mean, I was right there! How’d he miss?”_ Sol laughed despite herself, shaking her head.

            “Oh, but darling, he didn’t, did he?” She questioned his corpse, face scrunching up into an expression of pain. Sol felt another wave of tears hit her but she blinked them away. There would be time to grieve later, after she found Shaun. Nate was leaned to one side of the pod, his blue vault suit more of a purple now and covered in ice. It clung to his lashes and stuck to his hair. From his left hand she could see his wedding ring. That lump returned when she caught the glinting of it in the artificial light. She’d spent weeks thinking of the words to etch into the band before they’d married.

            Carefully, like touching him would still somehow hurt him, even now, she reached for his hand. Nate was cold and his limbs stiff. The usual rich brown of his skin was ashen and gray. The features she held so dear were gaunt and it was just thin skin stretched across bone, “I’m so sorry—It, it should have been me, Nate, “ She closed her eyes, “I wish it was me—“ Regret filled her the moment she said it.

            How could she say that? Nate would have wanted to her to live, to survive, and most of all, he would have wanted her to find Shaun, “… But you’d wish it was you, if you were here, wouldn’t you?” Maybe it made her crazy, but it was a comfort to talk to him, one last time. He’d been her best friend and confidant for more than a decade, her husband for half of that time, and she didn’t know how to be herself without him, “I’ll find him, Nate. I promise. I’ll find him and I’ll make that son-of-a-bitch regret ever thinking we were easy targets.” It was still ‘we’. Deep down, she was sure it would always be ‘we’.

            As she looked toward the exit, her gaze was again drawn by his ring. Gently, she slid it off his finger and curled her fingers around it in her left palm. It clinked softly against the metal of her own ring. Sol offered him one last tearful glance, sent him a silent goodbye and a prayer to a God she didn’t believe in anymore, and turned toward the flashing-light adorned door.

            What awaited her outside of this pit was unknown, but it couldn’t have been any worse than staying in this graveyard.


	2. From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sol leaves the Vault and greets the outside world. Even she's a little unsure which place is worse.

            Sol had been  _wrong_.

           The outside world was Hell and she could barely believe that it was real. The landscape was barren and gray, smattered with twisted, rotting trees. Brush and sickly grass poked up in various places to break up the smooth expanse of concrete and death. It was a wasteland. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

           “I can’t believe I quit smoking only for the world to end. What a fucking drag.” The words sounded hollow, even to herself. What was that saying? Fake it until you make it? Yeah, she was going to do something like that.

           There had been a duffle bag in the Overseer’s office and she’d stuffed it with anything useful, and not so useful, things she’d found. Absentmindedly she rummaged through a side pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes she’d found on a bedside table and the lighter that had been next to it. Was this what she’d been reduced to? Stealing from the dead? Though she supposed it wasn’t really stealing if there was no one to call it stealing.        

           From memory her fingers unwrapped the plastic around the pack, smacked the top few times on the fleshy part of her palm, and then popped the top up. Sol pulled one from the right edge and raised it to her lips. It was a gesture so familiar, so comforting, it almost made her forget she was looking at an irradiated hell.

           Almost. 

           But not quite. She lit the cigarette and breathed in deeply, feeling a rush of something in her body for the first time in… Well, she wasn’t sure how long it’d been. Her fingers shook around the cigarette and she stared out into the abyss. Just below were the ruins of the place she’d once called home, but even as she felt compelled to go down, she couldn’t bring herself to take a single step. There were too many memories, too many opportunities to drown in her pain.

            What would she do now? Were there any people still alive? No, there had to be, where else would people come from to kidnap her son? At least that meant there were still people alive out there, somewhere. The bag hung awkwardly on her bruised shoulder, looking ready to slide off, “Fuck—“ She sighed, dropping her half-finished cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath her heel. There were tears on her cheeks. When had she started crying again?

            “I guess I just pick a direction and…?” She asked no in particular, taking another look at the landscape. Old, cracked roads ran all across the land as far as her eyes could see. The old highways were crumbling, still intact in some places and large gaps in the concrete in others. For a moment, she could almost imagine the world as it was. Green and beautiful, filled with a million noises and a billion people and a sadness seized her heart.

            Sol frowned deeply, looking years older than she was. After a moment of contemplation, she turned away from the cliff and walked off the elevator platform, still finding her legs a little unsteady after only God knew how long inside of that machine. The path back down to Sanctuary Hills was a difficult one. The dirt path was smooth and unmarred by rocks and mostly clear of debris.

            It was the skeletons that bothered her the most. The ones that laid just outside of the gate to the vault elevator’s perimeter. There was the body of a woman, just weathered white bones now, clad in a tattered blue dress with faded little yellow flowers. Sol remembered her, running beside her toward the vault. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn’t even realized the majority of her neighbors were doomed to die outside of this gate.

           She, Nate, and Shaun had been so easily admitted that it wasn’t until she was about to climb into the pod—For decompression and decontamination her ass!—That she realized something seemed off. By then it was too late and everyone who’d made it to the vault was doomed to becoming a popsicle.

           Sol snorted a little at the thought. They probably had fit the part, all covered in ice and dressed in dark blue. She tried to ignore the skeletons and focus on the humor. Laugh to keep from crying, right?

            _Left foot, right foot, left foot_ —She had to remind herself to keep moving down the path. The closer she drew to the old neighborhood, the harder memories knocked at her mind’s door. She couldn’t ignore faded names on mailboxes or rusted out cars she knew should have only been days old. The bright street lights Nate had been so excited about, something about safety and security, were toppled up and down the street. The ones left standing were little more than scrap metal and parts.

           Sol was on the street now. To her left were the ruins of her former home, several houses down, and to the right the footbridge across the river, leading to the gas station that had once kept all of her vices. Absently, she wondered if there were any liquor still in the old station. She could really,  _really_  use a drink about now. Unable to bring herself to turn left, Sol made for the footbridge. The soft  _thud, thud, thud_  of her footsteps on the broken boards were drown out by the sounds of her thoughts.

           The world was gone. Everyone she’d ever known—even the hot mailman she and Nate took turns teasing—was dead. She passed the fresh corpse of a man and some kind of skinny, bald, ani—Dear God, it was a  _dog_. Sol stopped walking to stare at the poor creature in horror. Was this what the world had been reduced to? Feral dogs and desperate, ragged people fighting for scraps? The pistol on her hip felt heavy all of a sudden.

           Her name wasn’t really Sol. The woman who had existed before the bombs dropped had been called something else, her name scrawled prettily across a diploma that was little more than a piece of paper now, good only for kindling. Thinking about that name made her heart ache, it made her  _think_  and  _remember_  and she didn’t want that.

           Sol, though, Sol was a good name. Nate had never whispered it in the dark while they were pressed close together, limbs intertwined. Her mother had never called it from across the house, irritation in her tone because she wasn’t walking fast enough. No one had said, “I love you, Sol.” And that was a comfort in of itself.

          She wasn’t sure when she began walking again, but she found herself doing it. Sol was drawn from her thoughts by the sound of barking, and her mind flashed to the emaciated creature down the road, behind her. From the rusted out gas pumps came running a dog, one that looked nothing like the one she’d seen. This dog had all of his fur and bright eyes. He almost seemed to… Smile when he spotted her. A playful bark escaped the dog and Sol felt her heart warming a little. Gently, she rubbed under his chin, “Aren’t you cute? Where’s your owner, buddy?” The dog barked again. There was no sign of anyone around to claim the animal, not even a body.

         Sol looked around, scanning the area one more time, and then shrugged, “I guess you’re coming with me, then?” They’d had a dog runaway just a few weeks before the bombs dropped, she’d been  _so_  upset that Nate had searched the neighborhood for days but they’d found nothing. She felt as though the wind had been knocked out of just by thinking of him, even by accident. It wasn’t as though she meant to keep thinking about him, but everything reminded her of him.

         She sighed heavily, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. This was going to be—The dog barked at her once more, wagging his tail and staring up at her with warm, expecting eyes. She knelt down in front of him, hands now on either side of his jaw, “Who’s a sweet boy, huh?” Sol hummed, “It’s too bad you don’t have a collar, what am I supposed to call you?” The dog licked her cheek sneakily and then ran off as her face twisted, “Oh, gross—!” He bolted toward a billboard behind the gas station, between two rather unsteady looking steel beams.

        “Hey! Get back here, you mutt!” Sol cried, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. After only a second of hesitation, she gave chase after the furry animal. She’d always hated being alone anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say I've been really encouraged by the feedback I've gotten on this fic! I, as a lame author, thrive off of attention and the kudos been motivating me to write like crazy. This is just me in my room, crying over fictional people, so let me know about any errors!
> 
> *Deacon appears in the next chapter and writing his dialogue is hilarious--


	3. Sheltered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sol meets a very important person, even if she doesn't realize it.

                 “Caravan or raider?” A sharp, feminine voice barked out at her. Sol gasped, whipping her body toward the first sign of friendly people in days. The woman narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip on her gun, “I’m not goin’ to ask again. Caravan or raider?” Sol raised her hands in front of her, palms up, in surprise.

                 “Oh, uh—neither, really! Just, ” All of it a sudden it hit her how _exhausted_ she was. She and the dog, who she’d staunchly been calling ‘Buddy’ rather than Dogmeat, had been moving for almost a week. Preston had been hard-pressed to let her leave and, as pain ripped through her shoulder and chest, she wondered if he was right.

                 But it hurt as badly to keep still as it did to move, to look at the ancient buildings and remember what they looked like in all their glory. They’d barely even stopped to sleep, only stealing a tense hours a night in whatever half-standing shelter that kept out the howling wind they could find.

                 Dark circles had formed under her eyes and a heavy weariness settled in her bones. The hastily filled bag still hung over her frame, the strap looking like the dog had gotten hold of it. He had, in fact. The bastard had been chewing on it when she woke from a nightmare the night before, and he looked the picture of apologetic guilt when her eyes landed on him. Sol supposed the dog was the only reason she hadn’t lost her mind yet.

                “Lookin’ for a safe place to spend the night,” She’d run across other people not long after chasing after the dog, in Concord’s museum of freedom. It had reminded her of Nate, the mural of ‘freedom fighters’ on the second floor. Sol had thrown one of the broken barricades at the man in the power armor that kept _staring_ at her. There had been people there, settlers, and she saved them.

                But she’d killed to do it. Their blood had soaked her vault suit, though it had been shredded beyond repair not long after. They’d screamed—One had begged the other not to die on them—And Sol felt sick again _. But they were going to kill Preston and his group_ , a soft whisper came from the back of her mind, _You_ _did what you had to do. Did what you had to—_

                Sol painted on a pretty, fake smile that pulled her twisted features smooth, “And to trade a few things. Can I come in?” She asked, patting the duffle bag a little. The woman seemed to think about her answer for a long time, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

               “Alright, you can come in. You can rent a room from the bar in the back, an’ trading’s in the building with the fancy columns. An’ keep your gun holstered!” Sol nodded, needing little more invitation to enter the first bastion of civilization she’d seen since she woke. Her dog raced ahead of her, barking excitedly and bounding up to people.

               “Hey!” She laughed, and the sound was foreign even to her. People turned to stare at her. Sol coughed half-way through the laugh, a little embarrassed, and cleared her throat against her fist, “We’re buying you a goddamn leash here.” She mumbled, following after him a much slower pace. Her legs felt unsteady and gelatinous, like noodles, and she didn’t have the strength or motivation to chase after in earnest.

                Or at least, she didn’t until she spotted the dog _fucking jumping on someone_ —Sol covered her eyes with her right hand, even more embarrassed now. Saving someone from the torment of the dog’s breath and muddy paws gave her the motivation to jog up to the pair. She barely noticed his laughter.

               “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! He’s not usually like this—!” It was a lie. She hadn’t know the dog long enough to know what he was usually like, it had only been a month. But the lie slipped off her tongue easily, like breathing, and she continued on, “C’mon, get off of him!” She grasped the back of the red bandanna she’d tied around the dog’s neck two days ago and pulled him back, just hard enough to coax him back but not hard enough to choke the poor thing.

               After several more exasperated moments, Sol managed to get the dog on his own four legs and to stop barking. She sighed softly, shaking her head a little, “I swear, I’m just going to let you run off next time. Maybe let the next guy eat you.” She groused out, then her face heated, “Not that you were going to eat him!” She yelped, remembering that the ‘guy’ was still there.

_Hello mouth, this is foot! He doesn’t taste good, does he? Maybe you should stop saying stupid things then_. Sol almost groaned when he laughed. As if this situation wasn’t bad enough, now he was _laughing_ at her.

              Sol finally found the courage to look up from her dog and at the caravan hand the dog had jumped on. She blinked several times. He might have been handsome, and he might not have been. She couldn’t have been sure, a pair of sunglasses were hiding his eyes from her and he wore a dull blue hat that shadowed the rest of his features. A padded jacket around the same shade of blue as his hat was buttoned up to his neck. He looked like everyone else and somehow like no one else.

              She stood up straight now, releasing the grip she held on the dog, fingers aching from clutching it too long, “You never know,” He chuckled, the throaty sound was lovely—She scrunched up her nose a little at that invasive thought—and gestured widely, turning his body and swinging his arms upward a little as if to say, ‘anything’s possible’, “Especially in the Commonwealth.”

              It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this wasteland called that. It almost made her laugh every time she heard someone say it. They had no idea what this place was like before, no idea what the word ‘commonwealth’ meant to the people that lived here. It was union, safety, and that was an impossibility out here. She’d been out of the vault for a month and already she’d run across destroyed settlements and seen people murdered for crumbs.

             Scavengers shot at her if they thought she was too close, for God’s sake!

             Call it paranoia, but she found herself not really wanting to explain herself to this man any longer. There was something in his posture—The way he held himself—that set her on edge. Sol didn’t know why, only that he sent chills down her spine when he leveled his shielded eyes at her. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, playing tricks on her mind and setting off all of her alarm bells.

             Every instinct in her body screamed at her, begged her to turn around and leave Bunker Hill. Everything would be better if she just left _right now_ —Sol cleared her throat, “Oh believe me, I know. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen out there,” She smiled at him but it hurt her cheeks. Hurt her heart. Everything in this world was _raw_ and so _real_ and it helped, just a little, to pretend it didn’t tear into her.

            “Oh yeah? Try me, lady,” The amusement was evident in his tone and his lips had quirked into a little smirk, the left corners of his lips curling upward just a little more than the right. She wasn’t sure why she’d noticed that, but there it was. His grin was infectious and she found her plastic smile melting into something more genuine.

            Sol snorted, rolling her eyes, “See this?” She tilted her neck back a little, fingers hooking into the collar of her shirt, and yanked it back a few inches. Three angry, halfway healed slashes stood out starkly on her skin. They were deep and she felt them pull with every step she took. Back at the museum, back with the _raiders_ and the _blood_ and the _fire_ and—

_The very face of death itself_.

            When that… She wasn’t even sure of what it was— _A goddamn ten foot tall lizard, that’s what the fuck it was_ —her mind offered helpfully, popped out of the sewers, Sol had lost it. She only remembered screaming and blood and a horrible _ripping_ as those sharp, sharp claws opened her suit like a fucking tin can. It hooked its claws into the gaps between the torso and the left arm of her suit, and pulled violently, digging into her flesh at the same time. It tore off the torso piece and tossed it away like it was nothing, leaving her gasping for air and with three bleeding claw marks stretching from the top of her left shoulder and down diagonally across her left breast. The wounds ended just as the slashes touched her sternum.

            There was a shot from somewhere and it hit the monster, distracting it. The beast roared and the air smelled like ozone, she knew it was an energy weapon— _Preston!_ The thought of him dying for her was enough to drag her from the haze. The deathclaw had been killed, suffice to say. The settlers had patched her up as best they could, pumping her full of whatever Mama Murphy had on her, and Sturges had carried her all the way to Sanctuary. That was weeks ago. From what she knew, she was lucky to alive.

            Didn’t feel like it.

            “I went nine rounds with a deathclaw, barehanded fisticuffs, and won.” She proclaimed proudly, finding the truth of the story too much, too personal, to utter, “All those degenerate gamblers had to pay me good caps when I knocked it out.” Sol held her right hand in a fist and shook it, as if to say ‘with this hand!’. The man eyed her wound, a twitching in his cheek letting her know he was trying to keep from laughing at her.

            Sol almost laughed at herself, “It feels about as good as it looks,” She let the fabric fall back against her skin. If there was any indication of him not believing her, she didn’t notice. Maybe he believed her, maybe he didn’t care if it was the truth or not, or maybe he was just fucking with her. It didn’t matter much to her what he thought of her story.

            He grinned, “Sounds like a hell of a party!” His head tilted downward toward her dog, one of his hands reaching down to scratch him behind the ears, “Does wet-dog-smell have a name?” The dog huffed, pleased by the scratching.

            She looked vaguely embarrassed again for a moment, “I mean, I didn’t really name him, he came with the name—“ The man raised an expecting eyebrow and she thought her cheeks might explode with the heat gathered in them, “Dogmeat… His name is Dogmeat.” His laughter was expected but it, unexpectedly, made her heart clench.

            “And I’m _not_ supposed to eat him? “ The man asked, deadly serious for moment, but he snorted a second later and dissolved into more laughter. The sound washed over her and settled her nerves. Sol had been so starved for human contact, contact that didn’t involve a gun and killing someone, that it only took a smallest hint of kindness to constrict her heart. She hated it. It was stupid, stupid to like his laugh and stupid to think she could be safe. _Stupid, stupid_ —

            “This is Houston, do we have a problem?” He questioned, one brow rising just above the rims of his sunglasses. She’d become distracted, lost in his own thoughts. It happened all too often. Sol had always been an irreverent daydreamer.

            Sol blinked once, twice, and then burst out laughing. The way he had said it, like he knew exactly what Houston was and what significance it held to the joke. She couldn’t help herself. Smirking, she placed two fingers over her right ear, pressed gently, and made a static sort of noise, “Negative, Houston, everything's a-okay, over. You forgot to say over, that’s what _makes_ the joke! … Over.”

            He was laughing one now, shoulders shaking with mirth, “I’ll remember that for next time,” His hands were in his coat pockets now, back leaned against one of the solid looking shacks. The comfortable feeling around him had begun to fade now that she was ‘brought back down to earth’. Aching weariness overcame her once more and she felt the smile that had only just recently returned slip away slowly. Somehow, they both knew the conversation was over.

            “Next time, huh?” Sol adjusted the bag draped over her, the corners of her mouth quirking back up a little, “Watch yourself out there, if that's what you want,” And then she started to walk toward the bar she could see emerging from the rear of the settlement, “Maybe I’ll see you around.” She hummed, tossing a wave over her unhurt shoulder.

            “Maybe you will.” There was something in his tone, hidden beneath the smooth sound of his words. Something like a promise, something like a hope. Maybe it was just her and her exhaustion, hallucinating things.

             But she was sure he watched her, stared after her retreating form. Somehow, Sol knew she hadn’t seen the last of that caravan hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Deacon sounds like himself! He's a hard character to get a handle on. Props to whoever wrote his dialogue at Bethesda, because this boy is a goldmine--
> 
> Then next chapter fleshes them both out more, and I got carried away, so chapter four will be longer than the previous ones! Let me know what you guys think so far~
> 
> *ALSO: Deacon is the worst spy ever tbh, take off your sunglasses you nerd, we know it's you BECAUSE OF THEM


	4. Jack (Daniels)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sol realizes drinking away her grief may not be a good idea.

       Bunker Hill was _cozy_. It was the kindest word that Sol could think of to describe the place. Other words she might have used, if she wasn’t too busy trying to drink herself into oblivion, would have been ‘rank’, ‘dirty’, and ‘full of annoying people’.

       However, the half-full bottle of whiskey beside her tossed those words far from her mind. The only things that mattered at the moment was the burning of liquor down her throat and the buzzing of intoxication in her ears. Besides, it had been good enough for her stay in longer than she meant to. A night turned into two, then three. If she was being honest with herself, she was avoiding the wastes.

       The barkeep’s son, Tony, had been giving her pitying looks for more than an hour. It made her gut twist angrily and the whiskey tasted more and more bitter each time she caught his gaze on her. He’d explained to her what a synth was when she walked upon an argument between him and his father. Since then he had felt the need to talk to her every time she sat at the bar.

       Their eyes clashed once more and Sol’s upper lip curled into the beginning of a snarl, but an easy, carefree voice wiped the expression off her face.

      “Barkeep, a bottle of whiskey, “ The caravan hand from several days before strolled up to the bar and slid into a stool two seats down from her. The heavy-set man chuckled, shaking his head. He was dressed differently, clad in some dusty flannel and patched jeans. Not that she could say she looked much better, dressed in a dead man’s clothing two sizes too large.

      “Gal down there bought the last I had. Got plenty o’ Rotgut though!” Even with his features as hidden as they were she could still see an expression of disgust flit across his face for a moment. Sol felt a smile pull at her lips. It was probably the alcohol. It dulled the pain in her chest and erased the pain plaguing her shredded shoulder.

      She was never even so much as going to _look_ at a Deathclaw again.

      Sol wasn’t sure why she opened her mouth, but she’d keep blaming it on the whiskey, “Maybe I’ll share if you ask _real_ nice,” She teased, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. Her fingers were curled delicately around the neck of the bottle, lifting it up, and letting it swing back and forth slowly.

      He seemed as surprised as she was that she was speaking to him, though those sunglasses hid his eyes from her, so she couldn’t be sure. Sol both hated it and found it endearing. It had be nine o’clock at night and yet here he was, wearing the darkest pair glasses she’d seen. It was ridiculous.

      “Do I have to say please?” He asked, humor edging into his tone. His voice was smooth and reminded her of a time long past. It sounded like waves lapping on a beach, calm after the storm, scattering debris unknowingly. It reminded her of summers in California and the smell of the sea. Sol squinted at the whiskey for a moment, wondering just how strong it was.

      “It _would_ be the thing to do, wouldn’t it?” Sol crossed her legs, right over her left, and perched unsteadily on her stool. She wobbled a little, but found her balance after a few seconds. The man seemed to have caught on to her unsteadiness though, and took the opportunity to snatch the bottle from her. How he had moved to her so quickly, so quietly, she was unsure. Sol pursed her lips into a pout, “ _Cheater._ ” She huffed, crossing her arms childishly.

      “You never said I had to play fair, ” The man hummed, settling himself into the stool beside her. Sol would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought of him, this utterly generic man and yet… She was losing her mind and she was drunk. Hell, Sol didn’t even know his name, and something told her that people were far less trusting with that information nowadays.

      Sol yanked herself from her thoughts before she could become lost to them again, “Somehow, I don’t see you playing fair even I’d told you to.” There was that smirk again, one side higher than the other, and a rush of guilt washed over.

      Her husband was dead only a month and here she was, getting butterflies from some stranger in a bar. _I’m going to digest you little bastards and then I’m going to win_ —God she needed to stop having conversations with herself when she’s supposed to be talking to other people. He took a swig straight from the bottle, humming in appreciation at the numbness spread by the burn, “You’re probably right, but it never hurts to try, right?”

      Sol rolled her eyes, turning herself to the right a little, so her body was angled toward him, “There a lot of things that hurt to try,” She snorted a little, laughing at her own half-finished joke, “Like punching a robot in the face,” Sol counted off the ‘things’ with her fingers, “Or kissing a Mirelurk,” Her nose wrinkled up, “Or trying anal.”

      The caravan hand choked on his next drink, coughing harshly, and set the bottle down on the bar with a solid _thud_. Sol tossed her head back and laughed, snorting every couple of laughs, as he smacked his palm against his chest, “Oh my God,” She gasped, “Don’t choke an’ die on me, I don’t want to finish this bottle alone.” Sol teased, whiskey leaving her warm and smiling.

      When he finally regained enough composure to speak, he was snorting, “I’m not sure I want to which things you know hurt to try,”

      Sol leveled her eyes at him, wearing a playful smirk, “You totally want to know, you’re just not drunk enough to ask yet.” He shrugged, not exactly disagreeing, and reached for the bottle again.

      “ _Tsk_ , greedy little shit,” Sol huffed, pushing his hand away before it could reach the bottle, “You’re not very good at sharing, Mr—Hmm, it occurs to me I don’t know your name.” She was fishing for information, and not very subtly at that. Sol looked at him, _really_ looked at him, and found herself faltering. All of a sudden, he was unreadable. The expressions she’d thought were so telling did not appear.

      Sol stole the bottle as he extended his other hand, “You can call me Jack, everyone else does,” Hesitantly, she slid her hand into his. His hands were calloused, obviously created by many years of the same work, but she found the places they laid odd. Nate’s hands had been rough and scarred, calloused by many years of holding a gun and the metal rubbing against his flesh with the recoil.

     The rough patches followed a pattern, though, and this man’s hands… They felt like Nate’s. Maybe it was something that had changed in the world, everyone used guns, everyone had callouses. Even she had them, or at least the beginnings of them.

     Sometimes, she found herself marveling at how many things had changed. About herself, about people, about the world— Sol shook her head, then shook his hand, “Jack, huh?” Her tone held some skepticism. Maybe it was just her, but he didn’t look like a ‘Jack’, “I’m—,” She hesitated, just for a split second, and then continued, “Olivia,” Anyone but herself, that was all that mattered.

      “Well, Olivia,” He seemed to be testing her name on tongue, feeling how it rolled off, “Take a swig and pass it.” Sol’s brows knit together for a moment before she remembered the bottle in her free hand, and the hand still clasped in his. Their hands broke apart, heat rising on her cheeks, and Sol knocked back another drink and passed it toward the ‘Jack’. Just like her own name was fake, she suspected his was as well.

      Didn’t matter though. For a moment, she felt _normal_. Something like foolishness rose in her chest, “I’m lookin’ for someone,” Sol hummed softly, tapping her fingers on the bar. He raised a brow, lips wrapped around the bottle, “Maybe he passed through here,” The words sounded slightly slurred, even to her own ears, “Ugly son-of-a-bitch, bald, nasty scar across his left eye. Looks like a merc. Sounds like he might gargle with bourbon and glass?”

      In college, she’d taken a couple of courses on reading body language. It worked wonders in a courtroom, she knew what buttons to press and when to keep pushing at a subject. With this man though, it didn’t work even half of the time. It was frustrating and fascinating and— _Fuck_ , she couldn’t even explain the expression that touched his features for a moment, like shock and fear and _thought_. It was gone as quickly as it came though, leaving his features as smooth as they were a few seconds before.

      “I can’t say I’ve seen anyone like him pass through, but my caravan has only been here a few days.” He took another drink, “Why? What’d he do to you?” Now it was her turn to be fished for information. The haze of alcohol was not enough to keep the memories at bay. Sol deflated, crossed her arms on the bar, and frowned.

      “… I don’t much feel like talking about it.” Her voice was thick with emotion, the tone wobbling for a moment, “All you need to know is that he deserves whatever I do to him when I find him.” Sol was going to _kill_ him, tear him to _pieces_ , and watch as he bled out. She was going to _enjoy_ watching the life drain out of him. It made her sick how much she hated him, and it made her even sicker to think about how much she wanted to kill him.

      Gently, he set the bottle next to her, “I bet he does.” There was something like understanding in his voice, but Sol couldn’t bring herself to take notice. If she noticed it, felt something like kindness, she’d do something stupid, “If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” It was a lie. He seemed to do a lot of that, little white lies he probably didn’t need to tell.  

      It didn’t matter. She’d rather be lied to, in truth. It hurt less, and she’d had enough of that in the past weeks. Sol peeked at him from the corners of her eyes, “Yeah? Thanks, Jack.” He nodded at her, just the slightest incline of his head, and even a small gesture could be comforting.

      Sol realized, at the same time, just how _drunk_ she was and how impossible it was going to be stagger up the stairs to her room for the night. Without care, she took another drink out of the bottle and then offered it toward him, “You can keep the rest of the bottle, if you like. I’m positive I won’t remember tonight if I finish it myself,” It was both the truth and a distraction. She didn’t want to move yet, leave her perch and abandon her company.

      It would be smarter to do it, though. Besides, if she wanted to get up those stairs before midnight, she’d better get started. ‘Jack’ took the bottle from her and sat it on the bar beside him, eying her warily. He was probably afraid she’d step off the stool and fall on her face. To be honest, she was a little worried that might happen herself.

      Sol braced her hands on the bar in front of her, and scooted off the stool. The stool was too tall for her to simply step off, leaving her unsteady as her feet made contact with the ground a few moments later. She smiled, proud of herself for managing to stay upright with the way the ground was swaying at the moment.

      Goosebumps rippled across her flesh when she felt his hand land on her hip. It was not the reaction she expected, nor was it the one she wanted, but there was nothing she could about it now. Sol looked up at him inquisitively, only now noticing how much shorter than him she was. Not that he was very tall himself. He was, well, _average_. Sol just happened to have barely scraped his shoulders.

      He was smirking, “You’re never going to make it up those stairs. I mean, it would probably be _hilarious_ to watch you try. You know, up until your broke your neck,” The hand at her hip rose to brush over her neck as he spoke, “C’mon, I’ll be a gentleman and help you up to your bunk.”

      Sol snorted, swatting at his hand but missing, “A gentleman, huh? I haven’t run across any out here so far,” His hand drifted back down, resting finally on her waist, “Wait, that’s a lie,” She hummed, starting to walk toward the stairs. To his credit, he walked fairly straight and held her upright without disturbing the barely placated wound.

      He raised a brow, a common expression, over the top of his too-dark sunglasses. Sol didn’t understand how he didn’t run into walls or brahmin, “Oh? I’m kind of curious where this Gentleman is now. Is he like a superhero? What are his powers? Opening doors for ladies and paying for dinner? I wonder if he’s rescued any damsels.”

      “Paying for dinner on a date is a courtesy, thank you very much,” Sol stated in a manner of fact tone of voice, “If you don’t do it, you’re just a dick,” He laughed again, and she could feel the sound of it rumbling in his chest, “And, for the record, _I_ did the rescuing.” They started up the steps _. Left foot, right foot_ —This wasn’t as hard when she had someone else to lean on.

      “Did you now?” Sol narrowed her eyes up at him. She knew he was looking for more information. How often had she done it herself? Wait for someone to make a mistake, say something stupid, and then go in for kill. Weasel out the information you needed from them and then go, leaving them confused and not sure what happened.

      Still, it was nice to play the game again. Her eyes bore into the panels of his glasses, “Maybe I did.” They took a step together, “Maybe he’s still there, in distress.” She teased, trying to ignore how warm he was, how inviting it was to press into his side.

      “Man, I hope not. He’s goin’ to holding that door open for a long time,” Sol laughed a little, breath looking like smoke in the cold air. They took the last few steps steadily, and Sol with flourished one hand.

      “We made it! I thought we were going down around step number six,”

      “Nah, more like step eight. Yeesh, could you have been more off-balance? I thought you were going to eat it.” She snorted and, somewhat reluctantly, pulled herself from his arms. There were a few more stumbled steps until she reached the locked door of her room. She’d been renting it since she arrived, and it was beginning to become too much of a home for her liking.

      “I—” Sol gasped sharply when she turned around and found herself face to face with the man. She took a step back, but only managed to press herself back against the door. Moonlight peeked through the clouds, shading his features handsomely. The thought flooded her with guilt. She was _drunk_ —Drunk and thinking stupid—But she could feel his breath rolling over his face.

      He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes and sweat and she’d never been so desperate for anyone in her life. Her heart was in her throat, her entire body was tingling, and she couldn’t breathe. His hands were on her again and it was like she couldn’t think. When she placed her hands on him, fingers digging into his flannel, the illusion was broken.

      They wrenched apart, like acid had been splashed between him. The quick movement made her shoulder scream, the slashes burning. The fog of intoxication was lifted and cold dread crept into her. The man, Jack he called himself, was several feet from her now and seemed as shocked as herself. He was breathing heavily, running a hand over his bald head.

      Sol was the first to speak, babbling, “That was—What I mean is—We’re both drunk.” The air was thick, awkward, “I’m sorry.” She finished lamely, tongue feeling like lead. Without waiting for him to respond, she bolted into her room and locked the door. Sol pressed her back against the door and then slid down, hoping that sitting might help her clear her thoughts.

      Sol pretended like she didn’t see him when she left Bunker Hill the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say, thank you so much for the kudos and the encouraging comments! I'm so excited to actually be regularly updating a fic again, and you guys really motivate me to write. I already have tomorrow's chapter ready too!
> 
> Honestly, that last scene was a /little/ self-indulgent, but grief and whiskey is a hell of a thing. The control it took me not to include an alternate ending where that's a smut scene as 'extra' was enormous (I still might do it, tbh, in a one-shot series I'm considering)
> 
> Anyway! Lots of love guys, and enjoy~
> 
> *Also, yes, Deacon's name /is/ a whiskey pun. I didn't realize it myself until it was done--


	5. Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things better left in the past, but Sol had never been good at leaving things there.

      Goodneighbor was no better than Bunker Hill, but at least they actually had buildings. It was strange to see the Old State House in the condition it was, and even stranger to see a ghoul wearing John Hancock’s clothing. Even stranger still when that’s what he calls himself. At least someone who cut a nice figure was wearing the clothes.  

      Sol had spent the first day trying to dig up any rumors on the man that had broken into the vault she could. A description wasn’t much to go on, but it was what she had and she would be damned if it didn’t lead her somewhere. No one knew anything, or so they said. ‘Ain’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’.’ They’d said. Seemed like Boston’s red light district never really did change.

      Sol leaned against the wall opposite the balcony, vaguely listening to Hancock make his speech about the institute. She’d heard about them, hard not to when synth was the word on everyone’s lips these days. If rumor was to be believed, and she was always wary of rumor, they were responsible for a great deal of death, grief, and evil. One truth she knew about them was that they created synths, synthetic people. It sounded like science fiction to her, but anything was possible in the world now.

      “I love Hancock’s speeches. So inspiring. Totally. You tell ‘em, Hancock.” Sol turned her head so quickly she was afraid she’d cracked her neck. In the crowd, sandwiched between Daisy and one of the Watch, was the caravan hand from Bunker Hill. Only, she couldn’t be sure if it was him. It looked like him, and it sounded like him, but he held himself differently. The drifter was taller than the caravan hand, leaner, and seemed to favor his right leg. Sol hadn’t noticed a limp while walking up the stairs. Or when—

      Heat rose to her cheeks when she thought of their moment outside of her room. She’d been so drunk, so _lonely_ , and she’d nearly done something very stupid. She could still feel his fingers grasping her hips—

      Sol scowled and shook her head. There was no way it was him, he looked too at home in the squalor to be the same man from Bunker Hill. Still, she found her gaze being drawn back to him time and after time during the speech. Hancock finally stopped rambling on, and the crowd started to dissipate. When the man turned his head toward her, catching her in the act of staring, she spotted familiar sunglasses.

_It was him_.

      Sol wasn’t sure if she was angry or relieved. What was he doing here? And why was he pretending to be someone else? She frowned. That was a question she needed to answer for herself before she could ask anyone else.

      There was a moment, just a moment, where they stared at each other. A familiar rolling nausea invaded her and she felt the desperate need to move, to escape his covered eyes. Sol looked for somewhere, anywhere, to duck into. ‘The Memory Den’ was a promising enough looking place.

      “Running from somethin’, sister? Welcome home.” One of the drifters hummed toward her as she pulled herself from the wall and walked as quickly as she could without drawing attention. The red double-doors were unlocked when she tugged on the brass handle.

      “Aren’t we all?” She mumbled to herself and she slid inside after a moment’s hesitation. The place was clean, cleaner than most other places she’d come across, and she noticed a woman draped gracefully over a red velvet chaise when she stepped into the main room. She was blonde and beautiful, with a voice that slid over her skin like silk.

      “Do you even know what we do here?”

      Sol grinned cheekily, finding some comfort in humor, “Something having to do with memories?” The woman laughed, sitting up just a little more, “I mean, that’s what the sign said. But there’s a lot of signs that lie nowadays.”

      “Hmm, how refreshing to have someone actually pay attention. You don’t look like you need the memory den, though.” Sol stole a glance at the strange, bubbled pods. There was a screen attached to the top and it looked like the glass would swing down to seal the person inside. Sol had to admit, she _was_ curious.

      “You never know.” Memories, huh?, “Could I use one of the pods? I’m sure you have your reasons for saying no, but I can handle it.” Sol questioned, tilting her head to the left a little. Distantly, she heard the doors swing open and click shut behind her. She didn’t pay it much attention, however, and instead turned her focus to who she assumed owned the pods. The woman seemed to mull the question over in her head, expression switching between contemplation and curiosity.

      After several minutes, she hummed, “Alright, honey. Just pick out a pod. Doctor Amari? We have a new client.” Sol then noticed another woman in the back of the room, typing frantically into a terminal. There was a pod, already open and ready, to her left and she moved to stand beside it, “Is there something specific you’d like to remember? Maybe a person? Strong emotional connections are the best for these sorts of things.”

      Sol looked to the floor for a moment, crippling guilt flooding her. For a moment, a terrible moment, she thought of reliving that moment on the wall. She hadn’t felt so _alive_ since before Nate died—and just thinking of Nate and ‘Jack’ at the same time made her sick. How could she have done that to her husband?

      “My husband was… Murdered recently.” The words had to be forced out, the cutting truth catching in her throat, strangling her, “If I could—If I could Just see him _one_ more time…” Her nails bit into the palms of her hands, leaving bloody crescents in their wake. She ignored the look of pity from the woman.

      “Oh, honey, let’s see what we can do.” The woman, Irma she heard the doctor whisper, spoke comforting. She laid a pale hand on Sol’s arm, squeezed a little, and then gestured toward the pod, “C’mon, dear, in you go.”

      There was a moment where she considered fleeing, letting her cowardice take over, but Sol had never been a coward and she wasn’t about to start now. She took a deep breath and then clambered into the pod. The plush insides were softer and more comfortable than she’d been expecting. After a few seconds, the glass top dropped down and sealed the pod with a soft _hiss_. The sound was frighteningly reminiscent of the cryopods.

      Each thump of her heart echoed in her ears, drowning out the soft sounds of speech and the shuffling of footsteps. The screen in front of her began to blur and her senses started to dull, like she was submerged in water. A shadowy figure passed over her pod just as memory overwhelmed her. Sol breathed in—

      When she let out the breath, she was no longer in the inside of the pod. Well, her body was, but her mind was not. Watching her own memories was something she hadn’t thought possible. The thick fog faded and she was suddenly in a room she never wanted to be in again.

      Sol could feel panic rising inside of her, hysterical and wild, threatening to shatter her carefully pieced together façade, “Oh, oh _God_ , God _no_ …” There was nothing she could do to stop it. There were two people in suits, not just the one she’d seen before. But she couldn’t stop staring at the man who had killed her husband.

      Who was _going_ to kill her husband.

      Sol tried to throw herself at him in desperation, but she only went through him. She gasped, staring at her hands in horror, barely registering that this wasn’t real, that it was a memory. He was talking, rough and low, barking orders at the woman in blue. Body shaking violently, she turned and spotted… Herself.

      It was unsettling to watch herself scream and struggle. Every time she watched the woman who looked like her, and yet didn’t, pound against the glass, she remembered the pain of the bruises that came after. Everything seemed to slow down when the unmistakable _hiss_ of Nate’s pod opening echoed throughout the metal room of memories.

      Shaun started crying and Sol lost all sense, “No! No! Why—” Her voice cracked sharply, grief tearing into her anew, “Why _us_?” She begged the man, though he couldn’t hear her. He lifted his gun as Nate struggled to keep hold of Shaun, shouting. Sol clutched her chest over her heart, praying that this would not play out the way she _knew_ it would. Tears blurred her vision.

      The gun went off, the sound deafening her for a moment. Someone was screaming, screaming her husband’s name, and she wasn’t sure if it was herself or her-not-self in the pod. A cold, sickening feeling filled her chest. It made bile rise in her throat. It was hate, she knew it was, and she hated that man _so_ much.

      The voices of Irma and Doctor Amari finally began to break through the noise in her head, “I’ve got her!”

      “Pull her out, Doctor!”

      She tried to touch Nate, grab his hand, but their fingers passed through each other, “It should have been me— _It should have been me_ …”

      Sol’s eyes flew open, chest heaving as she gasped desperately for air, hands flying out in front of her to press against the glass. The pod’s hatch opened and she all but threw herself out, collapsing to her hands and knees on the floor. There were a few quiet moments on the floor as she tried to compose herself and pretend like her grief wasn’t suddenly raw. Absently, she heard the doors of the Den open and close again.

      With whatever strength she had left, she managed to pull herself to her feet, “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to put you through that again.” Irma looked worried, forehead wrinkled with concern. Sol offered her an unsteady smile, trying to stop the racing of her heart.

      “How could you have possibly known? Besides, I said I could handle it, right?” She hadn’t been able to. It was as if she had been back there again, watching his murder in perfect detail. She noticed things she hadn’t before, too caught up in confusion and fear and _grief_. His last words would haunt her for all of her days, she was sure of it.

      “Those people… They kidnapped my son. I need to find them.” Sol sounded tired and, _God_ , she was. But she had to find her son, she had to find Shaun. She would never be able to rest, and neither would Nate, until she did.

      Something flashed in Irma’s eyes and Sol found herself with the first bit of hope she’d had in what seemed like forever. Nick Valentine, detective in Diamond City. It was something. It was more than she’d had before, and that was worth the bleeding in her chest. She’d thanked Irma, probably far too hastily than was polite, and made for the doors.

      It was late November. She’d been ticking off the days on her pip-boy, desperately clinging to whatever semblance of order she could. The air was cold, and her shaking hands scrambled for a pack of cigarettes in her back pocket. It was half empty and carried her lighter too. She placed one between her lips and tried to strike the lighter, but her fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

      Emotion swelled in her chest and frustration rose up. Sol wanted to scream and cry and rage all at the same time. It wasn’t _fair_ —Someone was gently pulling the lighter from her white-knuckled grip. Sol swallowed thickly when she noticed sunglasses glinting at her in the dim lamp-light, “Let me get that for you.” He flicked the lighter and she leaned up just a little to light the cigarette hanging from between her lips.

      Sol tried to ignore the way she wanted to squirm under his gaze, “Hell of a day, huh?” She breathed in deeply—Nate would be upset she was smoking again, but _fuck_ it—and laughed a little as she exhaled, smoke floating around her.

      “You don’t know the half of it.” The whole situation was a joke. Her eyes flicked back toward him, and she was even more sure it was the caravan hand from Bunker Hill. He had to know who she was, and somehow that made it easier. Easier to stand in the dark, smoking a cigarette with a shapeshifter. Easier to breathe. Easier to _exist_.

      “Victoria,” She offered suddenly. It was a different name than before, and she could have sworn she saw the left side of his mouth curl.

      He stole a cigarette from her pack, fingers moving fast than she could catch them, “I’m Michael, if you’re fishing for a name.” She liked this one more than Jack. He looked more like a Michael, but not quite. Somehow, she knew she would never know his real name. The shaking in her hands had not stopped, causing ash to fall down steadily. Several times she thought she might drop it.

      But he said nothing and she was thankful for that. Sol didn’t need, or want, his pity or his comfort, “So, Mike, can I call you Mike? I’m going to anyway, honestly,” Rambling helped, she supposed. It kept her mind from drifting to thoughts better left until she was too drunk to care. He was smiling though, and she found herself noticing the dusting of freckles on his face, “Thank you.”

      Sol wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for, exactly. Whether it was for Bunker Hill or for lighting her cigarette or distracting her from herself, she didn’t know, but she was thankful for this shadowy man nonetheless. For a moment, she felt _real_ and _alive_.

      There was the quirk of his brow, just a hair above those ridiculous glasses, “For what?” Sol smiled cryptically.

      “For the light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so flattered and honored by the response Sol and this fic has gotten! I'm so thankful for the kind comments and kudos, because they make me smile and then write chapters furiously (I nearly finished two chapters yesterday!)
> 
> I've really be trying to make Sol seem like a real person? It's why a lot of what she says/thinks can be taken with a grain of salt, she's a (somewhat) unreliable narrator. She's secretive, passive-aggressive, and doesn't much care about herself beyond 'stay breathing, find Shaun'. It's sort of a bad combination in the Commonwealth and it's great. 
> 
> Anyway, before I start rambling! Hope you enjoyed! Tomorrow's chapter may be very, very long if I don't split it in the middle, so tomorrow's may be a two-parter.


	6. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just had to be feral ghouls, didn't it?

      Sol sighed softly, kicking a rock in her path. She probably should have asked for directions to Diamond city before she’d left Goodneighbor, but she was more than a little eager to get on the road. The incident in the memory den had shaken her, and she couldn’t bring herself to stay longer than a few days, feeling sick every time she spied the doors. The man, Jack, or Michael, or whatever his name was, had not been among the drifters when she wandered out of the Old State House in the morning.

      She would deny the pang of disappointment she felt.

      Her dog ran ahead of her, turning into some kind of courtyard. Sol rolled her eyes, “I’ve warned you about bolting off!” She huffed, jogging after the dog. When she caught up with him, she had to do a double-take at the scene. A rusted protectron was trying to educate her dog on the finer points of American Revolution history, while his tail whacked repeatedly into some kind of sign.

      “What in the world…? ‘At journey’s end, follow freedom’s lantern’.” Sol raised a brow at what looked like blue paint, scrawled into a message. This place had to be what was left of the Freedom Trail, she remembered taking a tour as a child. Boston had looked much different back then, and this sign certainly hadn’t been present. On the marker in front of her feet were more markings, in red this time, “7A? What, are we playing some fucked up wasteland bingo now?”

      Still, the presence of a code on the markers was curious. Sol wrinkled her nose, “Curiosity killed the cat.” She could almost hear Nate, ‘ _But satisfaction brought it back_ ’. The red path was still present, it would be all too easy to follow it—before she could make up her mind, the dog was running along the path himself, “Jesus Christ, can’t you keep still for five minutes?” Sol hollered after the dog.

      Sometimes, she wondered who was leading who.

      The next marker was around the corner and across the street, laid at the steps of the Massachusetts State House, “4L? This is definitely a puzzle or something.” The red trail curved back down the street and around the corner, out into the city. With her pistol out, she slowly made her way down the eerily quiet road. The only sounds were the clicking of Dogmeat’s nails on the concrete and her own footsteps, “Who writes a code on two hundred year old historical monuments? I mean, there are easier ways to spread the word, right?”

      The dog couldn’t answer back, and maybe that was why she preferred to travel with him. As they grew closer to the graveyard that housed the next marker, the sound of shuffling reached Sol’s ears. Though she hadn’t been in the wasteland long, it was a sound she learned to identify early on. There were ferals in the cemetery. Honestly, there was nothing she hated more than feral ghouls. They popped out of nowhere, crawled out walls and ceilings, traveled in packs, and could tear a man to pieces in minutes.

      In short, they scared the _shit_ out of her.

      Sol ducked behind a hollowed out car a ways down the street from the pack. Beside her Dogmeat whined, eyes moving toward the ferals. The dog had saved her life more than once, having the uncanny ability to sniff out hostiles before she could spot them, “I know, boy,” She whispered, sliding the duffel bag off her shoulder and setting it on the ground. There was no shortage of weapons she could scavenge in the Commonwealth, and she already had a few favorites.

      She almost laughed. Her, having a favorite gun? Nate would have been proud. Before that train of thought could continue, her fingers found their target in the bag. The .50 sniper rifle had been a lucky find, buried under a pile of junk in a steamer trunk. She’d almost missed it in her efforts to avoid tetanus.

      The condition had been a little rough and the glass in the scope was cracked, but she spent all the caps she’d made in Goodneighbor repairing it. If anything could be said about the place, it was that it had no shortage of work to be done. The bullets were expensive and raiders rarely used .50, so she preferred to use the rifle sparingly.

      Sol pulled the rifle out of the bag and set it on the rusted car. She looked through the scope, counting off how many ghouls she saw. Not for the first time, she was thankful her Nate had insisted he teach her to shoot. There were four of them in the dry grass and one more hiding in the shell of a bus a few feet from the sidewalk.

_Bang! Click. Bang! Click. Bang! Click._

      With each shot, the recoil bruised her shoulder and a casing fell to the ground. It was easier if she didn’t think about what they were, and what had happened to them. Sol cursed as the remaining two ghouls disappeared from sight, and laid her rifle across the hood of the car. She reached for the .44 on her hip and nearly screamed when a feral slithered across the roof and crawled toward her.

      Dogmeat was barking angrily, trying to get its attention. Sol took the opportunity to squeeze off a few rounds into it, and they hit their mark, “Where is it, where is the last one?” She whispered to herself, panic edging into her tone. Her eyes shot toward the tops of building and then behind the graves. There was no sign of it.

      “See anything, Buddy?” The dog growled lowly, hackles raised and teeth bared. And then she was on the ground, something heavy on top of her. The wind had been knocked out of her and she felt dizzy. Horror filled her as she realized it was the feral, and it was struggling to stand back up. Sol rolled herself as hard as she could, trying to get away from the creature. As she tried to stand, it went after her again, preparing to tackle her. She screwed her eyes shut and waited for impact.

      The blow never came and she opened her eyes. The sight of her dog, atop the now-dead feral, wagging his tail, was enough to make her laugh despite the situation, “What a good boy! You okay, buddy? They didn’t get you, did they?” She asked, calling him over and looking him over for any wounds. There were none, and they started back on their ‘journey’ after she’d gathered her things, pointedly ignoring the way her hands shook.

      It was strange, at least to her, that someone would leave a puzzle in the middle of the Commons. Why? What were they trying to lead people to? The only way she would find out would be if she followed the path until the end. And that was what she did, crawling through the ruins of Boston, ignoring the way too-familiar sights pulled at her heart. The city was full of danger, and not just from things that carried guns. Sol had to be mindful as she walked, peering into abandoned cars and half-collapsed buildings, to avoid the many mutated animals that infested the area.

      By the time she and the dog reached the end of the trail, Sol was over figuring out the puzzle. They’d run into a second pack of ghouls and _fucking_ super mutants along the way. She had managed to take out two of the mutants before the most terrifying sound she’d ever heard started echoing around them. The sound had only appeared once before, and it had been followed by a deafening explosion that reminded her of things better left forgotten.

      Not risking another second in the place she was, Sol had all but picked up the dog and ran in opposite direction. Unfortunately, that took her off the path and she’d been _lost_ for _hours_. It had taken her a long time to find some trace of the trail again, and it was just red paint in some places. Despite finally being at the end of the line, she did not feel accomplished.

      Sol was tired and irritated, and she hoped to God that whatever was inside was worth the mess. She probably could have been to Diamond city by now, though she supposed if she got lost on the trail she’d have gotten lost on her way to the city.

      Before she could take in her surroundings, the dog was squirming through the barely open door. She pursed her lips in irritation, “You’re such a little shit!” Whatever hesitation she had before stepping in was gone as she followed him in, “Buddy?”

      Pistol raised, Sol stepped into the room, eyes flicking back and forth. Each step was slow, calculated. Some might have called her paranoid, but she preferred to call it being cautious.  She winced when the ancient floorboards squeaked in protest under her weight. The dog was just inside of the main room, crouched low to the ground. He was just as on edge as she was, and that was enough to validate her fears.

      There was something inside of the church.

      Honestly though, when was the last time she walked into a building that _didn’t_ have some kind of horror-movie monster inside? Sometimes, she thought she might be getting used to it. As a feral ghoul shuffled to its feet, growling, she knew she was wrong. Her heart raced every time she held a gun, and guilt washed over her each time it was used.

      It was silly, to be feel bad about protecting herself, but she couldn’t help it. Sol had never liked violence but she had been hip-deep in it since leaving the vault. Was it five weeks ago or six? The days blurred together and even she couldn’t be sure what day of the week it as anymore. Sol pushed those thoughts from her mind and pulled the trigger twice, missing the first shot.

      Unfortunately, the gunshots caught the attention of the rest of the ghouls. She’d been hoping it was alone, but luck never seemed to be on her side. It was like she was constantly trying to catch her breath, forced to run again before the burning in her limbs could stop. The dog bolted forward, making sure the one she’d hit was dead, and then began to search for the others.

      Though she could hear their shambling steps, they did not come into view. Irritation spread across her features. As if it wasn’t bad enough they were here in the first place, now they were _hiding_ from her. Sol crouched and crept out of the archway, but stopped suddenly at the scene before her.

      The church was in shambles, pews broken and tossed around carelessly. The middle of the room was bathed in light and her heart felt very heavy all of a sudden. Even after all this time, after all of the things thrown at place, it still felt… _Holy_ , in a way. If there was still a God in the world, they would rest here. Despite the tugging in her chest, Sol knew better than to linger. Bad things happened when she did.

      As she cast her eyes to the right, she was surprised by a drawing of a lantern across the archway into the basement, “At journey’s end, follow freedom’s lantern…” She mumbled softly, standing and reaching for the marker. The paint was dry, but it wasn’t old. There were no white peelings on her fingers when she pulled her hand away like there were when she touched walls around the city.

      “Right, because walking into a basement is totally the smart thing to do.” Despite her words, she was already ducking under the collapsed walkway and swinging the door open. The dog was waiting for her just inside of the hallway, staring at her as if to ask, ‘What took so long?’. Sol rubbed his neck as she passed him, “Stick close, Bud. There’s ferals in here.” He’d probably find them before she did.

      She had not been expecting the basement to be a set of catacombs. Skeletons still bothered her, and there were so many. Their tombs were cracked, broken open, and their coffins torn out. Some of the coffins didn’t have lids, or bodies, anymore. Those were more disturbing than the ones that had skeletons in them. Whatever earthly possessions they’d been buried with were long gone, probably stolen by scavengers.

      She couldn’t blame them, not really. This was a world of the living, made for those who could survive it. It still bothered her nonetheless, the disrespect for the dead. The place was a nest of ferals, and they’d killed three since entering the basement, “Think there’s anymore?” Sometimes, she wished she wouldn’t open her mouth.

      The dog growled and another one of the ferals threw itself from around a corner, barreling toward her. Sol tried to aim for it, not wanting to waste any more ammo than she needed to, but wasn’t fast enough. It jumped on her, bringing them both to the ground in a mess of tangled, jerking limbs. She’d lost her gun in the struggle, nearly crying when it skittered out of reach. It grasped the fabric of her shirt tightly, hissing, as it tried to twist itself upright.

      The dog was barking, anxious and upset, but they both knew there was no way he could get the ghoul away without hurting her too, “Go! Find—” It freed one of its arms and struck down her on her left shoulder.

      Sol _screamed_.

      The wound there was barely closed, and the violent action ripped the deepest slash back open. The air smelled like blood, she could taste iron on her tongue, and she reached blindly for her gun through the pain. With her aching left arm, she tried to push the ghoul off of her, but white hot pain struck through her and stopped that action.

      It balled its hands into fists and rose them high above her head, preparing to bring them down with force. At the same time her fingers found the barrel of the .44 revolver. She grasped it tightly and, as the ghoul doubled its body over hers, fists barely missing the top of her head, slammed the side of the gun into its skull as hard as she could. There was a sickening _crack_ and the creature slumped atop her, though the dog was dragging it off frantically a second later.

      Vertigo overtook her suddenly and the brick ceiling spiraled wildly. Sol laughed a little, ignoring the way her shirt was sticking to her skin, “Hey, buddy, guess what?” The dog whimpered at her as she spoke, “ _Fuck_ feral ghouls.” She hissed, pushing herself to a sitting position with her right arm. For a moment, she was afraid to look at her shoulder. When she did, however, there was a sigh of relief.

      It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. It was bad, but not _as_ bad. It was a cold comfort, but at least she knew it probably wouldn’t kill her. Though her need to find a doctor had increased tenfold, especially if she wanted to avoid an infection. Her face twisted as she prodded at the claw mark, “Goddamnit, this is going to take forever to heal!” Dogmeat whined again, louder this time.

      Sol looked at him, his tail between his legs, and deflated, “C’mere…” He pressed up against her right side immediately, tucking himself under her arm, and looked up at her, “Hey, _hey_ , I’m okay, buddy,” She smiled, stroking his cheek, “I’m okay.” She wasn’t sure whether she was trying to convince herself or the dog. Her shirt felt wet, but that was the least of her concerns.

      If there was anything left in the catacombs, it had definitely heard her screaming. Using a wall to brace herself, fingers clinging tightly to a deep gouge in the wall, Sol pulled herself up. Her eyes slammed shut as she tried to combat the dizziness that overcame her. The dog butt into her, trying his best to help keep her steady. A handful of moments later she was taking slow steps down the winding tomb.

      There were two more turns before she came across another marker. It was on the wall and connected to some kind of device. When she reached out to touch the marker, the middle pushed inward like a button, “Huh?” Her fingers moved to trace along the words circling around the plate, and made a curious sound when they shifted beneath them, “Oh?”

      Sol narrowed her eyes at the circle and then gasped when realization hit her, “Jesus, I’m an idiot!” The letters, the numbers, it was all connected to _this_. It took her several minutes to spin the plate around enough times to put in all the letters, humming softly as each letter clicked something into place, “R, A, I, L,” She turned the plate back to the ‘R’ she’d used previously, “R, O, A, D—Oh!”

      The wall to her left groaned and scraped as it moved to the side, revealing a hidden room behind the catacombs. Holding her left shoulder with her right hand, pressing tightly on the wound under her shirt, Sol stepped into the darkened room, “… Hello?” She asked softly, fingers twitching to grab her gun, but she needed to keep pressure on her arm until it stopped bleeding. The room was pitch black, and she would be engulfed by it if she stepped in.

      Sol squared her shoulders and frowned at something in the darkness, “Is anyone— _Shit!_ ” Harsh light flooded the room suddenly, blinding her, and she raised her bloodied hands to block it out. She blinked rapidly several times, groaning, “What in the ever-loving… _Oh_.” Three people stood across the room from her, elevated, and two of them were pointing guns at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end it on a cliffhanger!! Otherwise, this thing would have been about 5000 words long, and even I think that might be a little much for all at once.
> 
> Honestly, I feel like it needs to be said that my in-game version of Sol has a luck of like, two, and that it shows in this fic. She just can't catch a break
> 
> Critique, comments, constructive criticism, and suggestions are always welcome! I'd like you guys to enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it c:


	7. ... And into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Usually, clandestine meetings are planned. 'Usually' was a word that never applied to her.

      Dogmeat snarled viciously, already on edge from their day dodging ferals. He looked ready to lunge, and the young man on the right looked ready to shoot him if he did, “ _Don’t even._ ” She whispered to the dog, jumping a little when the woman in the middle spoke.

      “Stop right there. You went through a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting. Before we go any further, answer my questions.” Sol’s brows knit together in confusion. Meeting? Was that what the markers had been for? She could have laughed, but thought better of it, “Who the hell are you?”

      “Meeting? What meeting?” She shook her head, arms falling to rest at her sides, “All I did was follow the markers. If you didn’t want people to find you, maybe don’t leave a trail?” The last part had been full of more than a little sarcasm and irritation, mostly brought on by the fading adrenaline and rising pain in her system. The answer seemed to shock them a little, “Why don’t you tell me who you are, first?”

      They stared at each other for a moment, each recognizing in the other an unwillingness to share information. In the end, it was the other woman who spoke first, “In a world full of suspicion, treachery, and hunters—we’re the synths’ only friends. We’re the Railroad. Now answer my question.”

      The Railroad? Tony, the barkeep’s son back in Bunker Hill, had mentioned wanting to joining them, to save synths. Maybe she would point him toward the sign in the Commons when she passed through again. But she probably wouldn’t.

      “I’m a nobody, really.” Sol offered, right hand moving to cradle her left shoulder again. The white-haired woman lifted her mini-gun a little higher when she saw her move, but faltered when she grabbed her arm, “Not very important at all.”

      “Who told you how to contact us then? You couldn’t have possibly found us by accident.” Her tone was disbelieving. A shadowy figure emerged from the back, but the lights kept her from seeing them.

       Sol raised one finger up, grinning, “Actually,” She was trying not to laugh, “There was this sign and, I mean, it basically said to follow it. What else was I supposed to do? ‘Oh, look at this suspiciously placed sign! I’m _totally_ going to ignore it’.” She rolled her eyes, “ _No_ , it doesn’t work like that.” Her left side felt sticky and cold, but she was fairly sure the bleeding had stopped. Not for the first time she was glad she had a coat on, hiding the blood from prying eyes.

      The woman sighed softly, “I’m Desdemona, and I’m the leader of the Railroad. And you—Deacon, where’ve you been?” The woman stopped addressing her and turned to speak to the man who had slipped into the room nearly unnoticed.

      “You’re having a party. What gives with my invitation?” Sol’s heart clenched when she heard his voice, both from fear and— _Whiskey, cigarettes, he’s warm_ —She tore her eyes from him and forced herself to look at Desdemona, fingers just a little tighter on her shoulder.

      He… Had hair? _That_ was new.

      “I need intel. Who is this?”

      He turned to face her and, for a split second, was as speechless as she was. His brows rose above those _damn_ sunglasses, his mouth falling open a little in surprise. As quickly as the expression had appeared, it was gone, “Well, she’s _got_ to be someone. She made it down here, right?” He looked back to her, the beginning of a grin on his face, “Normal people just don’t do that.”

      “If I’d known about the ferals, I wouldn’t have.” Sol huffed, and he laughed as her nose wrinkled up in disgust.

      “So you’ve got nothing? She’s a complete unknown?”

      Deacon shrugged at her, “What are our options? Shoot her?” Sol tensed as soon as he said it, “C’mon, we need friends, Dez. Now more than ever. And I got a _real_ good feeling about her.” Her unease did not leave. She doubted it would until the guns were off of her.

     “Are you vouching for her?” Desdemona sounded surprised, her brow raising high as she turned to look back at her.

      “Yes. Definitely.” There was _something_ on his face, an emotion she couldn’t identify, and then it was blank again. He was vouching for her? While she wasn't unhappy to be saved from a bullet, which she was sure they would have gifted her had he not shown up, it didn't sit well with her. Sol didn't like owing people.

      “Fine.” Desdemona sighed, “That changes things. I don’t know what you’ve heard, if anything, about us out there but—”

      Sol cut her off, “I’ve heard a few things. Good things, if nothing else.” She kept her voice level and eyes aimed at Desdemona, “You save synths from the institute, right? You’re helping people, and that makes you alright in my book.” It was a true enough statement. It was also fueled by her desire to get the _hell_ out of dodge, “Didn’t think I’d actually run into you guys.”

      Desdemona looked both irritated and impressed before she started talking again, waiting to make sure she wouldn’t be interrupted again, “You’re good at picking up rumors, I’ll give you that. I have a question for you. The only question that matters.” Sol tilted her head a little, her curiosity piqued, “Would you risk your life for your fellow man? Even if that man was a synth?”

      Sol laughed, “What kind of question is that? I’ve already risked my life for other people more than once, and I would do it again. Doesn’t matter to me if they’re a synth or a human, they’re fucking _people_.” For all she knew, she already had saved a synth. They probably weren’t going to come right out and say it, especially with the hate she’d heard spewed about them.

      “Good answer. Normally we’d try to recruit someone of your caliber with beliefs like yours, but we just don’t have the time or resources to train you as a full agent.” Sol frowned, wondering for a brief moment what would happen to her if they weren’t going to ‘recruit’ her, “But there are other ways you can contribute. See Deacon for details, if you’re interested. You’re free to go.”

      She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

      Though the sense of relief didn’t last when she’d realized what else the woman had said. Deacon. Her eyes flicked toward him. It suited him, at least. Maybe it wasn’t his name, but it suited him. She waited for Desdemona to turn around before approaching Deacon, though she didn’t know what to say when she got to him.

      He’d lied about having no idea who she was. That was part of their game, knowing and pretending not to. Dark eyes moved to look at him, but any response she had died on her lips when she did. What could she say? There were still others in the room, listening, and who knows what they would do if she revealed Deacon's lie.

      “What, cat got your tongue?” He teased, setting his hands on his hips. Sol rolled her eyes, moving her hand off her shoulder. She hoped it would draw less attention that way. It made her vulnerable, and she refused to be that in someone else’s territory. Deacon though, Deacon was smart. She had learned that much by talking to the people he pretended to be.

      “Do cats even exist anymore?” She asked more to herself than to him. Just because she hadn’t seen any, it didn’t mean they weren’t there. She raised a hand when he opened his mouth, “Don’t answer that. I’m just…”

      “Not sure what to say? Yeah, I tend have that effect on people. It must be my stunning good looks and dazzling personality.”

       Sol snorted, “You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer, Deacon.” His name rolled off her tongue easily, almost pleasantly. He shrugged, letting his arms rest at his sides now. She wanted to ask why he’d vouched for her, but she doubted he would tell her the truth. Not here, anyway.

      “I guess you could say I leave an impact.”

      She started laughing, but winced when her shoulder moved up with her laughter. There was no way he didn’t see it, and she only hoped he didn’t mention it. Maybe he would remember her showing off the wound back in Bunker Hill and assume it was just twinging, “Very funny,”

      “I try.” He hummed smugly, seemingly having a retort to everything she said.

       “Are we going to dance around each other all night or are you going to tell me what Desdemona wants me to do? Because if you’re not,” Dogmeat nudged at her hand with his nose, “I have things I could be doing.” Like finding a doctor. _Like running away_.

      “Straight to the point then. Okay, I can dig that. Dez wants me to make you a tourist. Think of them as informants, yeah? But _that_ would be a waste of your particular set of talents.” If she could see his eyes, she was sure he would have been rolling them, “So I’ve got a job, too big for just me, but perfect for the two of us,” The dog barked at him, “Yeah, sure, you can come too. We totally need a mascot anyway. We could be… The Railroad Ruffs! No?”

      Sol tried not to laugh, she really did, but she couldn’t help herself, “God—That was awful, just _awful_.”

      “Okay, that was pretty bad. But, hey, listen. We pull off this job, people will start noticing, heads will start turning, and Dez will have to bring you into the fold.” His hands moved as he spoke, emphasizing what he was saying, “So what you say?”

      There were moments in life, crossroads if you will, that can change the course of destiny. Something heavy inside of her whispered that this was one of those moments. Sol looked at him for a moment more, taking a little pleasure in making him wait for an answer. Deacon held himself differently than his previous incarnations, but his smirk was the same.

      “If feral ghouls are involved, you can count me out. Otherwise,” There was a twinge of guilt in her chest. She should be leaving and heading toward Diamond city, looking for the detective. But something told her this was something that wouldn’t wait that long, “I can handle whatever you throw at me.” Maybe if she said it confidently, she would feel it.

      “Perfecto! Meet me by the old highway outside Lexington and I’ll fill you in on the details when you get there.”

      Sol raised a brow at the lack of a time, “What, are you just going to wait around for hours until I show up?” It wasn’t as though she could go straight there. The adrenaline had long since worn off and her arm was still oddly numb, which was more than a little worrying.

      “I’d think you’d might want to get the job done,” His tone was still light, but seriousness lined the edges, “It’s kind of a time-sensitive issue. What, got more important things to be doing?” He knew she did, that much was obvious. How long he’d been following her was unknown, but that was a conversation left for when less ears were around. Ears he, and she by extension, had lied to.

      “I mean, I don’t know, I might want to sleep for a night somewhere. Getting attacked by ghouls wasn’t a very invigorating exercise.” Deacon snorted, but cleared his throat to curb the laughter bubbling up, “Don’t laugh at me! You know what? Fine. We run into ghouls, we’re leaving you to get _eaten_.” If she’d had less control, she might have stamped her foot on the floor. She didn’t, but she did pout at him.

      He didn’t stop himself from laughing this time, one hand moving to adjust his glasses. Even in the dark he was still wearing them, “I'll mark that down in my notes," He teased, "Alright, how about this then? Tomorrow, sunset, same location?”

      Sol nodded, offering him a hand, “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He shook it firmly, his face unreadable, “You’ll probably hear the dog first.”

      “It’s always nice to see my favorite snack.” The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she narrowed her eyes at him. It was the first time he’d even hinted at their previous meetings. He _was_ fucking with her. For some reason, her chest ached. It was easy enough to play her being upset off as being annoyed by the joke, and she rolled her eyes for effect.  

     “Oh _lord_ —I’m leaving now.” She whistled at the dog, and he took off into the catacombs, “Oh, and Deacon?” He looked at her expectantly, hands on his hips again and upper body angled toward her, “We need to talk. About—” Her eyes flicked toward the young man, inching closing to their conversation.

      “Mission parameters. Totally. Like I said, I’ll fill you in there.” He finished for her, throwing her a smirk that clearly said ‘keep up’. Sol nodded, turned on her heel, and headed for the dark corridors.

      “Oh, and see a doctor about that shoulder if you’re going to town. That looks _painful_.”

       _Goddammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I know I'm torturing you guys by putting off their 'talk', but Deacon is kind of built to avoid confrontation? He's going to until Sol can ambush him alone (next chapter c: )
> 
> I'm not even sorry for the puns--
> 
> Once they have their talk next chapter, things are really going to start rolling! The timeline may skip ahead and she'll mention in passing some things she's done, but it's always moving forward. You guys should let me know your favorite quests and I can toss these nerds (Deacon, Sol, Dogmeat) into them between plot chapters!
> 
> Thank you again for the kind comments and kudos!!! c:


	8. Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deacon thinks he's funny, and Sol doesn't.

      Sol frowned at the sling her arm was in, picking at the already frayed fabric hidden beneath her coat. The doctor in Bunker Hill had not been happy with the mess she’d been expected to repair. It was her own fault, she supposed. She should have had the doctor look at it the first time she’d passed through, but had foolishly avoided the woman. The damage had been done when the ghoul reopened it.

      She wasn’t sure what all of the words the doctor had said meant, nor did she care to listen very carefully. From what she gathered, there was nerve damage in her left arm and shoulder. It could be managed, and she should be able to fire a gun fine, but the fine motor skills in her hand had gone to hell. Her thumb, index, and middle finger didn’t always respond when she wanted them to, and her arm was either numb or tingling. If she wasn’t having any of those problems, it _hurt_. White hot pain would shoot through her arm, knocking the breath out of her.

      She’d taken the med-x but hadn’t used it. Sol had always been a little wary of drugs, even ones that might help. It would be a couple of weeks before she supposed to take the sling off, but she was sure she would have to abandon it sooner than that. After that… Her mind wandered to the medical brace shoved to the bottom of her bag, the seemingly complicated straps intimidating her.  

      Her jaw clenched tightly as her hand involuntarily curled into a fist, as though trying to squeeze the pain from her fingers. The pain would lessen and the nerve would heal a little, but the damage had been done and not even the best doctor in the Commonwealth could fix it.

      It wouldn’t stop her. _Nothing_ would stop her.

      Her introspective thoughts were interrupted by Dogmeat butting his head into her left hip. He’d been staying on that side of her, if he wasn’t in front of her, since her arm had been put into the sling and was now trying to bring her attention to a man on the path. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to determine if it was Deacon or not.

      He turned his head, sunglasses flashing in the setting sun, and she was sure, “Deacon! Is that you?” It was like he was supposed to be someone else, and she was beginning to get the feeling it was more from necessity than any strange desire to be a different person every day. She snorted, “Nice hat.”

      “Like it? I thought it made me look stylish. You’re lucky I didn’t get a face-swap while I was waiting. You sure like to take your sweet time, huh?” He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat, an easy grin playing on his lips. His hand fell from his hat to his hip, “What are you supposed to be? Oh man, did I miss one of those zombie runs? What a bummer!”

      Sol stared at him exasperatedly, “Do you ever shut up, Deacon? Wait—hold up, did you say a face-swap?” Something like dread shot through her. He changed his face? He could’ve been anywhere, at any time—She had to stop there, feeling unsettled.

      “Nope. I mean, there was that one time I didn’t talk for a month, but that’s because my jaw was wired shut.” He shrugged, and Sol found herself having a hard time believing the man. Still, what reason would he have to lie to her? Even if he had before, it didn’t make sense to lie about something you didn’t need to, “And yeah. Every year or two, I get a makeover. New body, face, the works. Keeps people on their toes.” His tone suggested he was winking, but the effect was lost.

      Somehow, she knew Deacon wouldn’t make sense anyway.

      “I bet eating out of a straw was fun.” There were only so many jokes she could manage before a familiar itching under her skin returned, and she wasn’t responding to the second part, “Deacon…” Her tone was serious and his posture changed, back straightening and standing taller, “You’ve been _following_ me.” There was an accusation in her voice, though she wasn’t sure what she was accusing him of, “When—”

      She didn’t want to know how long he’d been following her now that she thought about, nor when he had chosen to. _Was is before or after_ —She was frowning again, “Why?” She asked finally.

      He wanted to leave. She could tell that much from the way he held himself. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and his mouth was tight, “You sure you want to open up this can of worms? I could be about to tell you I’m your stalker or something.”

       “Aren’t you?”

      Deacon frowned at her, the lines on his face making him look older, and there was a seriousness to him, “It’s not like that. Look, I’d heard a few good things about someone new passing through the area. My job is to know whose coming and going,” Deacon half-shrugged, his stained clothing rustling noisily, “I heard about what you did in Concord.”

      Sol’s lips twisted, “I only half lied. There _was_ a deathclaw.”

      “And a group of settlers, being attacked by raiders. Like I said, good things.” Deacon almost sounded irritated, but she couldn’t be sure, “What I’m saying is that you piqued my interest, and that doesn’t happen very often,” His fingers tapped on the stock of his rifle, “We need friends, a little desperately, and you’re on my list of potentials.”

      Something akin to disappointment bubbled in her chest. It was stupid of her to hope that, maybe, he’d vouched her because—Sol _refused_ to allow that train of thought to continue. She didn’t need him, or his help, but he needed her. It filled her with pride, even if it shouldn’t have, “So why lie to Desdemona? What's the point in that?” She asked shortly, and Dogmeat butt into her hip again, “Hey! I don’t need input from the peanut gallery.”

      Deacon’s eyes bore into her, and being unable to see them only made it worse, "I lie. It's what I do." He rolled his shoulders, as though trying to shake something from his back, "Besides, what Dez doesn't know won't hurt her." There was that smirk again. She wasn't sure if he knew how to do anything else, his smile was never just a smile. 

      Sol shifted her weight from one foot to the other anxiously, trying to ignore the beginning of an ache in her shoulder, “Let’s just get to the point, okay? I’m here, out in the middle of the open, standing like idiot waiting for a sniper’s bullet or something. Are you going tell me what’s going on now?” She frowned impatiently.

      The air around them changed. It was less awkward but heavier, like a thick blanket of smoke had settled over them, “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re not exactly fortified at the church. That’s because until recently, we weren’t using it,” The ‘for what we’re using it for now, anyway’ hung unsaid between them, “We had to leave our last HQ in _kind_ of a hurry, and a lot of things,” His mouth was tight again, and she could see the edges of his eyes crinkling from the sides of the glasses, “ _Things_ ,” He repeated, the corners of his lips sliding downward, “Were left behind.”

      “And we’re going back inside to recover ‘ _things_ ’? That’s vague, Deacon.” She crossed her right arm over her bound left, “Honestly—”

      Deacon cut her off, snorting a little, “ _Honestly_ , do you ever stop asking questions?” He echoed her earlier question, a grin she suspected was more for his comfort than hers pulling his features, “Look, I’ll answer whatever questions you have later,” Sol was sure it was a lie, but it didn’t matter at this point. How many had he told her? And how little had she cared? He swayed a bit, moving his head a little to left and then a little to the right, “But there’s a tourist nearby with intel about the Op, so let’s go see what we can dig up.”

      “… Fine. But this isn’t over, Deacon. Not by a long shot.” At her grumbled words, he started to climb up a dilapidated bus leaned against the highway, following the path up.

      “Yeah, yeah,” He dismissed her, occupying his hands with checking over his rifle, “We’re looking for rail signs. They’re symbols we use to communicate and pass messages.” His hands kept moving along the gun, clenching and unclenching.

      Sol followed behind him, right hand moving to rest on the grip of her pistol. It would be difficult to fire one-handed, but she would manage. Besides, Dogmeat had been getting better at keeping the various wasteland dangers at a distance. So long as he kept them from getting to her, she would be fine, “And what is a rail sign, exactly?”

     “They’re—Look, there’s one here. See the arrow in the center? It means go in that direction. Different symbols mean different things.” Her brows furrowed as she looked at the little chalk marking. It was hard to see in the dying light, but it was there. It left her fingers powdery and white when she touched them, “There should be more of them ahead, c’mon.” He was already walking ahead of her, the dog only a step or two behind him.

      “Now I have to babysit two runners?” Sol grumbled under her breath and drug her fingers through the sign, erasing it, as she passed. Deacon’s shoulders shook a little, and she couldn’t stop the scowl that fought its way onto her features, “And just what are you laughing at, Elvis?”

      He actually had to stop walking because he was laughing so hard, “Nothing, nothing!” He insisted, mockingly wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes, “Just, you know, _you_.” Sol rolled her eyes, knocking her unhurt shoulder into his as she slid past him, “Aww, don’t be like that.” He cooed behind her, and she didn’t even have to look at him to see the shit-eating grin on his face.

      “Do you think Dez will be upset if I return him with a few extra holes?” Sol asked Dogmeat curiously, pointedly ignoring the way Deacon’s gaze burned on her back, “I mean, maybe just one?” The dog barked at her, wagging his tail enthusiastically. She gasped, voice full of false hurt, “You _like_ him, don’t you? You traitor!” Her hand was thrown over her heart dramatically, and Dogmeat barked excitedly, hopping around a little.

      “That’s because he has _excellent_ taste. You could learn something from him.”

      “He eats mirelurk shit for fun, Deacon. He’s not exactly an expert on taste.” She laughed, swiveling her hips to turn and look at him. For a moment he was surprised at how she turned on him, but he recovered quickly, “At least it smells better than that,” Her eyes roved over his upper half, “Where the hell did you pick that up?”

      Deacon pouted at her, tugging at the yellowed linen, “What, this old thing? Same place you pulled that attitude from. The _dumpster_.” Sol looked aghast for a second, and he was laughing again, “Oh man, you should see your face!” She huffed, fighting the urge to punch him in the shoulder. It’s what she would do when—He spoke again, interrupting her thoughts, “There’s another rail sign over here, we’re getting closer.”

      It was similar to the last, the arrow pointing further down the freeway, “Yeah?” Dead ghouls littered the concrete, and filled some kind of makeshift shelter, “You think these are your tourist’s handiwork?” Sol asked, kicking one of the corpses over to make sure it was dead. The ghoul’s face was mangled and, distantly, she felt a pang of sadness for them. Who they use to be.

      “Maybe? Probably. You can’t really work with the Railroad if you can’t defend yourself.” Sol shrugged with one shoulder, but froze when Dogmeat started growling.

      “Deacon…” She warned, voice low and hand reaching for her gun. He raised a brow curiously, but his grip on the rifle tightened exponentially. There was a shuffling, and then a groaning. Chills ran down the length of her spine. It happened all at once. The ferals crawled from under a car, and went after them. One went for her, one bolted after Deacon, and the third vanished from sight again before she could get a good look at it.

      Deacon lifted his rifle and smashed the butt into a feral’s chest, grunting with the effort it required. While it was slowed, it didn’t stop, and only stumbled back a few steps. Then it charged at him again, arms flailing. He blocked the blow with his gun, and used the ghoul’s momentum to fling it back, but it still wouldn’t back down, “Stubborn little—!”

      Sol ducked when the feral swung at her, stealing a glance at Deacon’s fight with his own feral. It was a mistake, and the second fist nearly collided with her face, but quick last-second jerk to the right left it at only a graze. It took her a half-second to cock her revolver, the other half to aim it at the feral, and just a breath to pull the trigger. The recoil was staggering with one hand, making her wrist ache fiercely, but the ghoul went down with a solid sound.

_Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in_ —Deacon’s gun fired, and her heart skipped a beat. Dogmeat was barking angrily, tugging on the ragged clothing of the ghoul trying to throw itself at Deacon. He took a few steps backward, knelt on the ground, and pulled the trigger again. The ghoul slumped to the ground limply. He looked proud of himself. A small, but more genuine than she’d seen from him before, smile curled on his face. She almost smiled back at him.

      And then, she remembered there had been _three_ ghouls. Just as she went to speak, wanting to warn him that there was still another around, it appeared. It was atop a car, pressed down close to the roof, just a few feet above where he was still kneeling on the ground. His face twisted in confusion as she ran toward him, “Deacon, _move!_ ” There was fear in her voice, and she couldn’t be bothered to hide it.

      Dogmeat raced ahead of her and put himself between Deacon and the lunging ghoul. All three of them were knocked to the ground with a chorus of groans, grunts, and growls. Deacon was flat on his back, the hat thrown off his head, and Dogmeat was trying to pull himself back up.

      Sol, still a distance back from them, raised the .44 again. What if she missed? Even worse, what if she hit Deacon or Dogmeat? The ghoul hissed angrily, clawing at the ground as it drug itself back up and shambled toward the still prone man, but the dog started tugging on the ghoul. If she didn’t think about it— _Crack!_

      Sol pulled the trigger before she could think better of it. The bullet tore through the feral ghoul’s right shoulder, but all that did was make it angrier. And turn its attention toward her instead. It threw itself into a desperate run at her, escaping Dogmeat’s jaws, and she cocked the revolver again.

      One step. Two. _Three_. It took a fourth, only a handful away from her now, and she squeezed the trigger. It fell to its knees, clutching its’ chest for a moment, and then fell into a lump on the concrete. Her breathing was ragged, rapid, but they were _alive_. The fog of adrenaline started to fade a little and she was running toward Deacon.

      “Shit! Shit, shit, _shit_ —Deacon! Deacon, are you alright?” Sol gasped, kneeling next to him on the ground. She stared down at him with wide eyes and a knit brow. He said nothing for a few long seconds, and she couldn’t tell if he was conscious or not because of his _stupid_ sunglasses. Hesitantly, she reached down to pull them off, but his hand shot up and grasped her wrist tightly before she could. It hurt a little, her whole arm sore from the gun’s recoil.

      He groaned lowly, brows rising as his face contorted. But then he was smirking up at her, “… Thought you said you were going to let them eat me,” He teased a little breathlessly. The tension in the air dissipated as relief washed over her. If he was joking, he probably alright, and that thought let other feelings flood her.

      Like embarrassment and anger, “You—!” She puffed her cheeks out and then snatched her wrist from his hand, “You _ass._ ” Sol stood as quickly as possible while staying steady, though she still wobbled upon standing. She couldn’t believe him! How could he have scared her like that? There was a hollow feeling in her chest and Sol frowned as she tried to calm her breathing. For a second, she’d feared the worst. He hadn’t moved when she said his name, didn’t respond _at all_ —Sol was rubbing furiously at her eyes with her right hand as she stomped away from him.

      “Hey, wait, I wasn’t done having you mourn me yet!” He called out to her, sitting up and reaching for his hat. Deacon was _laughing_ and she wasn’t sure why it made her so angry.

      Sol wanted to shake him, she wanted to _strangle_ him. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out her last cigarette. How many times had she begged Nate to wake up? She closed her eyes tightly, hoping it would force away the tide of memories. Her body moved from memory. Place the cigarette between her lips, pull out the lighter, strike, and _breathe_.

      Footsteps padded softly behind her, “Hey, c’mon, don’t be mad. It was just a joke. No hard feelings, yeah?” Deacon was standing next to her now, bathed in shadow, and looking at her. When she didn’t respond, he plucked the cigarette from between her fingers.

      Sol’s eyes snapped open, and she snarled, “Motherfuck—“

      “Ah, so she _does_ speak!” He laughed, taking a long drag of her cigarette before offering it back to her, “Look—”

      “No, _you_ look!” She spat, narrowing her eyes at him, “If you _ever_ pull something like that on me again,” Her voice shook a little as she spoke, and she cursed herself for it, “I’ll make sure you have a reason to be on the ground.” Sol took another slow breath inward, trying to let the nicotine settle her nerves.

      Despite her angry words, concern was etched across her face. She offered the cigarette to him, frowning when he opened his mouth again, “You always say such sweet things.” Smoke swirled around them, looking like fog in the moonlight. The sun had finished setting some time ago, but she hadn’t noticed when. Sol snorted, keeping her eyes on Dogmeat rather than on Deacon.

      “… You’re not funny.”

      “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

      “Hey, Deacon?” He passed the cigarette back to her.

      “Yeah?”

      “Shut the fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really loving these guys tbh, they crack me up as I write them.
> 
> Hi guys! Okay, kind of a long chapter, but some important things going on. I just want to clarify that, yes, Sol is disabled. She only has limited movement in her left arm and shoulder, and she can't carry more than, maybe, five pounds in her left hand. 
> 
> As someone with a disability, it's nice to show you don't need to be able-bodied to be a badass! The brace she has will make it easier to shoot, and at some point in the plotline Tinker Tom is going to mod it to hell c:
> 
> I think I'm finally starting to get a feel on Deacon's personality. Comments, constructive criticism, and kudos are always welcome and appreciated!


	9. Silver Shrouded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a superhero's not all its cracked up to be.

       “Bullseye—”

      “Jesus, Deacon, stop calling me that.” Sol huffed, looking over the thick material between her fingers, “I don’t even know _why_ Dez insisted I pick a codename.” It seemed useless to her. People would know who she was no matter what she called herself, and it wasn’t as though her son could be in any more danger than he already was. Someone else had him, which was already her worst nightmare made flesh.

      “And what am I supposed to call you, if not Bullseye?” Deacon was leaning against the motel room wall behind her, “Or,” He snorted before his joke even began, “Would you prefer to be referred to as ‘The Silver Shroud’?” His hands gestured dramatically as he laughed. They’d been running around the Common for days, ‘fighting crime’ as Deacon had put it.

      Sol rolled her eyes, the beginnings of a smirk on her face, “Just because you couldn’t squeeze your ass into these pants doesn’t mean you need to take it out on me.” He was wearing the costume’s hat, and she had to admit that he looked better in it than she did, “Besides, isn’t that who Kent said I was?”

      “Did you really listen to the show every week?” Sol tensed, shoulders squaring despite protests of her left side, “The Silver Shroud, I mean.”

      “I know what you mean.” It came out harsher than she meant, and she instantly regret it. Her fingers toyed with the belt of the jacket in her hands, “Sort of? Nate—He,” There was a pause before she continued. It was starting to get a little easier to think about him, but the hole in her chest still ached when she did, “He used to listen to them. Kept them real loud, and I could hear them no matter where I was in the house.” She shifted her weight to her right side, “Maybe it wasn’t the truth, but it was what Kent needed to hear.”

       There was a heavy silence between them. There had been a lot of those since the Switchboard and since her induction into the Railroad. Even more since her talk with Kent. He’d said there were a lot of memories there, and she knew the burden of remembering. She hadn’t pried, only laying a hand on his shoulder when he’d said it. Deacon was unlike any person she’d ever met, before or after the war. He kept everything close and offered humor to deflect anything else.

       Sol had called herself Bullseye on a whim, thinking it might be funny. It was a shame they actually seemed to take the code names seriously. It was all Deacon had called her for weeks, and she realized that it was because she’d never actually given him something else.

       “You can call me Sol,” She said suddenly, grinning even though he couldn’t see it, “Everyone else does.” He snorted, obviously catching the joke, and pushed off the wall, approaching her where she was by one of the beds. The jacket was still in her hands.

      “Sol, huh? _Sol_ ,” He drug out the ‘o’ in her name far longer than necessary, “That’s not your name though, is it?” That man was far too observant for his own good. She peeked at him from the corners of her eyes. It made him hard to read.

      “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. You’ll just have to keep guessing, won’t you?”  Sol pushed the jacket into his hands, looking away, “Hey, help me put this on.” It embarrassed her, to need help. The pain in her arm made it difficult to pull some garments on, and the Silver Shroud’s trench coat was one of those. She wasn’t sure which would be worse. Asking him for help, or letting him watch her struggle to dress herself.

      Sol was more than a little thankful he didn’t ask why. Deacon took the coat, shook it out, and then spread it open wide for her, “Left or right first?” For some reason, her chest felt heavy. Not bad sort of heavy, but… Heavy. It was nicer than feeling empty, in any case.

      “The left. You have to—”

      “I’ve seen you do it before.” Her heart skipped a beat. The sling had come off a few days ago, and she was still getting used to the way the brace rubbed against her skin. It helped with the pain, and she could actually move her shoulder around some when she wore it, but it wasn’t perfect. It itched and was awkward. Not to mention how hard it was to throw clothing over it, since it was supposed to be on her skin.

      Deacon pulled the sleeve up her arm, and she noticed how much care he took in doing so. He didn’t want to hurt her, she realized, feeling his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary at the crook of her neck. It took every ounce of self-control not to lean into his touch. Carefully, he moved one of his hands down the length of her arm, checking for any catches on the brace. Her other arm was much easier to get through the sleeve, but he helped her with it anyway.

      Sol chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, right hand moving to start closing buttons, “… Thanks, Deacon.”

      “Hey, don’t mention it. Any time.” Sol ignored the way her heart fluttered when he spoke. It had been difficult adjusting to only having complete use of one arm, but not only had Deacon been helping her, he didn’t say anything when it did. She was too proud to ask for help every time she needed it, and he had started to pick up on when she did. Deacon was strange man with many, many secrets, but he was a _good_ man, and that was what mattered.

      Before the silence between them could stretch any longer, Sol broke it, “You ready to go? I want to find Smiling Kate before she finds me. We’ll track Northy down after that.” Hancock had heard about her mischief as the Shroud, and informed her of the mess she was creating. It only seemed right she finish what she started, especially after pissing Sinjin off. Maybe it was silly to run around Boston in a superhero costume, but she didn’t care. It was _fun_ , and even Deacon tried to stay in character. It took her mind off of less pleasant things.

      “Totally. I’m _so_ not putting that Grognak costume back on, though. That thing rides up like you wouldn’t believe!” Sol snorted, dissolving into giggles when she remembered watching him pick at the loincloth the previous night, “This genie only grants one wish per person, and you already used yours up making me wear it last night.”

      “I did _not_ make you wear it!” She snorted again, trying to talk through laughter, “You said you looked like Grognak shirtless. I dared you to wear his costume. And then you got whiny because you were _cold_.” Dogmeat yawned from his position on her bed, and Deacon scrunched up his face, “So, Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger, know anything about this Sinjin?”

      Deacon shrugged, moving to pick up his rifle up from the table, “There’s not much more I can tell you that Hancock hasn’t already. He holds grudges, but I think you figured that out.” He aimed through the scope for a moment, going over the gun in a routine she’d seen dozens of times since they’d started traveling together, “He’s full of himself, kind of an egomaniac. Those are always the ones you have to watch for.”

      Sol finished tying the belt of the trench around her waist, “So, he’s an asshole, basically?”

      Deacon laughed, “Basically.”

      They’d been staying in the Rexford since Kent had asked her to become the Silver Shroud. That had been three days ago, and she already had an angry raider boss on her tail. She moved from the bed and toward Deacon, right hand snatching the hat off his head, “I’ve got Deliverer, let’s go.”

      He had given her the gun after the Switchboard. It had belonged to the man, Tommy Whispers, they’d found in the vault of the old HQ. The silencer reduced the recoil on the gun enormously, and she was more than a little grateful for it. Deliverer didn’t make her arm ache from her elbow down when she fired it with one hand like the .44 did, but it also didn’t leave as big of a hole behind.

      He nodded and opened the room door, “Ladies first.”

      Sol grinned, “I am no lady! I _am_ … The Silver Shroud!” Deacon started laughing and she pushed him, trying not to laugh herself, “Stop laughing! You’re going to make me break character out there, you jerk.” She checked the time on her pip-boy and then walked through. He kept laughing and meandered out the door behind her, “Hancock better be right about these two leading us to Sinjin.”

      “We can trust Hancock.” He seemed to rethink his words, weighing them, “Well, we can _mostly_ trust Hancock.”

      “Comforting.”

      With that, they left the hotel and then Goodneighbor itself. The trek through the ruins had been rather uneventful with their penchant for sticking to the shadows. Or it was until Smiling Kate and her posse started tearing through the area around Bunker Hill. It hadn’t been hard to find them, nor did they put up much of a fight save for Smiling Kate herself. Unfortunately, she had more than enough fight in her to make up for the useless thugs she had with her.

      Sol cursed as a bullet ricocheted off a wall behind her and then punctured a tire with a loud noise, “How many bullets could she possibly have?” She asked more to herself than to anyone else.

      “I’m guessing a lot!” Deacon hollered back at her from his place tucked behind a wall. His arm upper right arm was bleeding, soaking into the white button up he had on. One of the sniper’s bullets had grazed past his arm, and she’d nearly ran out of cover when she heard the pained noise he made. He had hidden himself behind the corner store’s wall before she could.

      Kate had managed to run off from the rest of the group while she and Deacon were occupied with her lackeys, and had found herself a nice little sniper’s perch. Laughing wildly, she fired another shot at Sol, who cursed again, “Deacon! Do you have a clear shot?”

      “Are you seriously asking me that right now? I’m pretty sure she’s trying to—Shit!” He ducked his head back, a round burying itself into the wall where his head had been only a second before, “She’s definitely trying to shoot me!”

      Sol laughed despite the situation, “Maybe she’s aiming for the wig!” For a long moment, there was no gunshots. She threw herself out of cover and ran ahead, looking for a closer vantage point. Just as she found one and slid behind it, the hail of bullets resumed, “If I was a bat-shit raider, where would I hide…?”  Dark eyes jumped from building to building, searching for any sign of the woman.

      For an exasperated moment, she saw nothing and no one. Just as she resigned herself to running from the sniper, she caught the glinting of her scope in the dim light, “Got you,” Sol hissed. Kate wasn’t very high nor very far from them, taking pot shots at them from the top of a fire escape. She was suddenly glad she’d left Dogmeat at the Rexford.

      An idea came to her. A _very bad, very stupid_ idea. But it was all she had. Sol swallowed thickly and tossed a glance back at Deacon. She pointed to her eyes with her right hand, and then at Kate. He had barely enough time to nod before she was vaulting over the meager cover she’d ducked behind, taking her chance as Kate reloaded once more.

      “The Shroud sees you, villain!” Sol declared boldly, valiantly trying to cover the trembling in her voice, “And I will bring you to justice!” _C’mon Deacon_ —Kate laughed again, and she was sure she could hear the bullet click into the rifle.

      “Stupid little freak! Oh, Sinjin’s goin’ to be _so_ happy I killed you,” Sol lifted her chin defiantly and glared at the raider. She had to buy time—She had to do _something_. Kate lifted her rifle again, and she knew any time she had was gone.

      “Give up, miscreant! You cannot win against the,” She searched for words, searched for hope, searched for Deacon, “The… The fury! The _fury_ of the Shroud’s Shadow!” It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, but she refused to let fear overtake her. If she died now, she would die _fighting_.

      “Aww, you won’t even beg? You’re so boring!” The raider cooed down to her, tone sickly sweet. The woman aimed through her scope, and Sol didn’t have to even look to know it was pointed at her heart.

_Crack!_

      Sol’s hand flew to her chest at the sound of the gunshot, gasping, but she sagged in relief when she felt no pain and saw no blood. When her eyes flew to where Kate should have been, there was nothing. When she looked just below that, however, she spotted her corpse lying mangled off the side of the fire escape.

      “Jesus fucking Christ, Sol!” Her brows furrowed as she turned toward his rapidly approaching footsteps. She rarely heard him curse, and was sure he was upset, “How could you do something so stupid? She could have—”

       “And what was I supposed to do, huh? Wait for her to pick us off?” She demanded, cutting him off.

       “She could have _killed_ you, she was this,” There was in inch of space between his forefinger and thumb, “Close.” His mouth was tight, lips twisted, and he looked angry in long shadows of sunset. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flared.

      “But she _didn’t_.” Sol insisted, “Deacon, you’re bleeding—” She tried to reach for his arm but he jerked away. The hurt expression she wore vanished quickly, she refused to let him see that.

      “Well, what if I hadn’t shot her first, huh? What then?” Deacon _was_ angry, she could hear in his voice and see it in his heaving shoulders.

       “I knew you would. I trust you.”

_You shouldn’t._

      It lay unspoken in the air. It had been his first lesson to her, when he’d told her he was a synth and she’d called bullshit. You can’t trust everyone. She couldn’t trust him, but she did. It was foolish and, maybe, it would lead to her death, but _damn her_ , she trusted him.

      As angry as he had been a moment ago, there was no trace of it on his face. It unnerved her how quickly he covered, changed, or faked his emotions, “ _Deacon_ ,” She said his name sharply, trying to get his attention, “Let me see your arm already,”

      “It’s not as bad as it looks. Really! Not all of the blood is mine.” He flashed her a smile that didn’t reassure her at all, “Seriously though,” He looked at her with covered eyes, “It’s just a graze. Find me a stimpak and I’ll be right as rain. Nonradioactive rain, even.” He kept his arm out of reach.

      Sol pursed her lips at him when he refused her help, but gave in. They still needed to track down Northy, and she didn’t have the energy to argue with him, “There’s some in that bag I made you carry.”

      They collected themselves in heavy silence, and headed toward Northy’s last known safehouse after Deacon had doctored himself. It was morning by the time they found him, three miles from where Hancock said he would be. She never liked to fight during the day. Sol would trade visibility for cover of night any day. Fortunately, the fight with him had gone much smoother than with Kate and her crew. It was when they returned to Goodneighbor that the real trouble began.

      “I’m getting him back.”

      “It’s a _trap_.”

      “You think I don’t know that?” Sol hissed, the message Sinjin had left for her playing on Kent’s radio, “I don’t care. I’m getting Kent back.” This had happened because of her. She had to find him.

      “I can’t possibly let you do something so dangerous and crazy alone. I’m coming with you.” Deacon was nodding at her, if answering some kind of question.

      Sol frowned, “This is _just_ like a comic book, I hate it. Of course they would kidnap Kent.” She ran a hand through her dark hair, tousling it carelessly, “ _Fuck_ , they shot him—” She closed her eyes as the radio broadcast repeated. There had been blood on his chair, but she had hoped…

      “If we leave now, we can be at Milton General by morning.”

      “I’ll grab the dog and anything we left in the room,” It was times like these she wish he wasn’t perpetually wearing sunglasses, “You should use my rifle. It’ll do more damage.” Her shoulder would burn when she tried to hold aim the gun, and she knew it would be weeks before her arm would be strong enough to fire it to again.

      They were back on the road, Dogmeat in tow, within the hour.

      It was her fault. If she had just stopped to think about what she was doing, who she was putting in danger, Kent would still be safe in the Den. But she hadn’t, and now he was at the bottom of some decrepit hospital in the hands of a furious gang leader. There had been fewer raiders inside than she had been expecting, but she _had_ been chipping away at his forces since donning the costume.

     The elevator shook ominously as it took them down, “When it stops, try to stay out of sight. I don’t know if they wanted me to come alone or not,” It stopped with a violent jerk, and she braced herself on one of the broken rails to keep upright, “ _Ugh_ —” She grunted, “I hate these things!” The doors slowly opened, and Deacon hid himself behind the sliver of wall, “If they see you, they might kill Kent. Be careful, Deacon.”

      “Aren’t I always?” She tossed him an unbelieving look.

      Sol stepped out into the light, glaring at Sinjin, Dogmeat at her side. Kent was on his knees, hands bound behind his back, with a gun at his head.

      “Don’t you take one more step closer!” Sinjin snarled, pushing the barrel of the gun a little harder into the back of Kent’s head, “So this is the infamous Silver Shroud, huh? I’m not impressed.”

      Her eyes flicked toward the terrified Kent, and she scowled, “You hide yourself behind an innocent. You are _craven_ , Sinjin.” She wasn’t sure why she was still playing the Shroud, but it gave her some degree of confidence. Not to mention the raspy, threatening voice seemed to put his men on edge, “And you shall fall before me.”

      “That shit don’t work on me. Some of these losers might believe you’re a legend, that you’re really the Shroud. But you and I? We know the truth,” Sinjin hissed, “You’re human. You’re _weak_. And I’m going to kill you.” He laughed, swinging his hands and gun upward.

      “I have cut a path through your thugs! Who can say I am not the Shroud?” It was true. They’d made short work of the raiders inside the rest of the hospital, but she wagered they’d already killed his best. Sol was thankful that they’d taken care of Smiling Kate. A sniper hidden in the room above Sinjin would have been a death sentence the moment she walked into the room.

      “I’m going to kill Kent, kill you, and then I’m going to pay a little visit to Goodneighbor,” Her upper lip curled into a sneer, “I’m going burn it to the fucking ground.” There was a tone of finality in his voice, but she refused to let an entire town be wiped out because of her.

      “What happens is _this_ ,” Her voice was normal now, but low, losing the raspy tone of the Shroud, “Everyone that points a gun at me dies.” Sol squared her shoulders and stared directly at Sinjin, “Every. Last. One.” It was a bluff, but if his men were as terrified of her as he said…

      “ _Shit_ , Sinjin can’t kill us if he’s dead!” Sinjin looked both horrified and furious as his gang members started fleeing. She was firing Deliverer at him before she could process that she’d reached for it, the dog racing up the stairs to his platform. His grip had tightened on his gun and she knew it would only take him a half-second to kill Kent, so she did the only thing she could. 

      “Kent!” She cried, abandoning her persona for a moment, “God, Kent, are you alright?” His knee was bloody and he looked like hell, but he was still breathing. She tried to undo the rope at his wrists, but she found her hand was shaking too much to do so. It left an odd feeling inside of her when she didn’t even have to ask Deacon to follow her up and untie Kent.

      They stayed in the room for a long time after Kent left, debating about whether or not they should head back to Goodneighbor themselves. Hancock would want to see her after Sinjin’s death, but she had other priorities, “Diamond City is closer,” She finally said, “And I have… _Business_ I need to take care of there.” Deacon raised a questioning brow at her, but she waved him off, “You remember Nick, right? He’s helping me find Shaun, and I’ve been putting this conversation off for far too long.”

      “I’m right behind you, Boss.” He hummed around the cigarette hanging between his lips.

      Sol rolled her eyes, “Let’s go. I have bigger fish than Hancock to fry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never realized how long this quest was until I went to go write it out! That's why it sort of skips around a little? I hope it's not confusing! 
> 
> So we're starting to get into some relationship development and I have a lot of feelings about that fact. She doesn't want to ask for help, and he makes it so she doesn't have to. And then the /tension/, it's too fun. I just hope Deacon makes sense! I honestly think that 'chill surfer-dude' stuff is half to distract people from looking too closely at him?
> 
> Anyway! The next chapter is plot again, and I expect it will probably be a two-parter because it's going to have a lot of meat to it! 
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying their development so far! Let me know how I can make it better c: 
> 
> *With Christmas only a few days away, there might not be a chapter everyday! I'm also planning a little Christmas chapter? So bear with me this week!


	10. Served Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving the devil a name doesn't make him any less terrifying.

_Kellogg._

      Giving the boogeyman a name gave her no comfort. It only made her pain worse. No longer was he a stranger in the dark, a hazy dream of ice and blood. He was _real_ and what happened, that was real too. The familiar, sick feeling of hate rose up in her for what felt like the millionth time. She wondered, vaguely, if killing him would even make her feel better.

      She didn’t care what attention she grabbed, shooting the lock off of Kellogg’s house, “Well, that’s one way to open a door.” Nick said a little worriedly to her left, smoke drifting up from his cigarette. The synth reminded her of a time long since passed, and she longed for smoky courtrooms and fast-talking police officers when she heard him speak.

      “I can’t pick them anymore,” There was a hint of bitterness in her tone as she shrugged with one shoulder, “You make do with what you’ve got, right? And I don’t have time to ask some greasy politician for keys.” They were words to fill the void, to keep her mind off the growing hole in her chest. Kellogg wasn’t inside, she knew that much, and that Shaun wasn’t either. She was always a step a behind, never able to catch up, “Deacon?”

      “All over it, Boss.” Deacon laid one hand flat against the door, and then slammed his opposite shoulder into it, forcing it open with a _thud_ against the wall, “To think, Kellogg was this close the whole time…”

      Sol frowned as she stepped through the doorway, “Sounds like you know him.” Deacon shrugged, following in after Nick. He was always the last one in and out of the room, shielded eyes ever watching. It was both unnerving and comforting. At least with him watching, she didn’t have to worry about a knife in the back.

      Probably.

      “Sort of. He’s basically public enemy number one,” His forehead creased, “He’s been a pain in the Railroad’s ass for as long as I can remember. If he’s got your son…” Sol hoped he didn’t finish his train of thought, unsure if her heart could take it, “Well, we’ll find him.” Her frown deepened and they set about searching the room for any trace of the man.

      The shack was small and well lived in, but a thin layer of dust indicated he hadn’t lived there in some time. A collection of comic books lay spread on a round carpet on the floor, the corners bent and worn from repeated turning. There were sweets and junk food on the sparse shelving. Upstairs, she could see a bed and a sleeping bag. Nick had said a boy was living here with Kellogg, but she had hoped he was wrong. Her heart clenched, and she knew they were looking at her.

      “Why don’t you check over by the desk?” Nick said gently before turning to rummage through a filing cabinet. His voice broke her from her thoughts and she mechanically did as he suggested. As she pushed back the chair, she spotted something odd. There was a bit of wire hanging down from the desk, and she knelt down to look at it. The wire was connected to a small box with a red button on it, and she pressed it.

      One of the walls slid away to reveal a hidden room, “What, does everyone have a backroom behind a false wall now?” She quipped, stepping toward the new opening, “Deacon, I want one. They can’t be that hard to install, right?” Sol kept talking, hoping it would keep her distracted.

      “Sorry, boss, HQ came with ours,” He, taking a pack of cigarettes from Kellogg’s side table, “What?” She snorted a little, shaking her head, “Tinker just reprogramed the one that was already there.” He continued, holding his free hand out for her lighter, “Want one?”

      “ _Please._ ” Sol dug into her right pocket and produced the silver flip-lighter, “I’m not sure if it’s got any fluid left.”

      “If it doesn’t, it’s not like you don’t have a _million_ of them in that bag of yours.” He groaned, laying a hand on his back, “We really need to talk about your hoarding problem, boss. It’s killing my back.” She started laughing but coughed to cover it up.

      “You say that now, but you never know when you’re going to need one.”

      “I once killed two guys with a lighter,” Sol raised a skeptical brow, “Oh, yeah, so there was this—”

      “Well, what do you know? All of a merc’s favorite things.” Nick interrupted from their left, looking through the mess of items on Kellogg’s shelves. Deacon was opening the pack with a pout she inspected the rest of the things on the table. There were beer bottles, .44 caliber bullets, and strange smelling cigars. The box they came in was labeled, in flowy font, ‘ _San Francisco Sunlights_ ’.

      “I’m not seeing anything useful, Nick. Not unless I want to make him a fucking gift basket or something,” Frustration welled up and she wanted to be left alone. To cry, to scream, to feel something other than _numb_. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t stop them.

      “C’mon, doll, don’t give up,” Nick encouraged her, picking up the box of cigars. Sol sighed, taking the cigarette offered by Deacon with an unsteady hand, “Hey, what about Dogmeat? Some dogs can track a man for miles and days in the wastes, provided there’s a trail.”

      It was a though she’d been struck by lightning, “You’re a genius, Nick! He’s around the market somewhere, he likes to beg for noodles from the customers there.” He offered her the cigar box, which she took with a still-shaking hand.

      “I know you already have company,” His glowing eyes set on Deacon, who smiled and wiggled his fingers at Nick, “And I understand if you feel like you have to do this on your own,” Concern was evident in his voice, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He seemed as foreign to this world as she was, “But I said I’d help you find your son. I’m a man of my word, and I’m with you on this one, if you’ll have me.”

      “The four of us can’t exactly traipse across the Commonwealth together,” Deacon interjected suddenly, an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers, “We’ll draw too much attention, and he’ll bolt again.”

      Sol grit her teeth as a burning pain started to radiate down from her shoulder. It crawled across her skin and settled in her joints, stabbing. It happened every once in a while, leaving her breathless. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to compose herself.

      “I know that,” Nick said slowly, staring at Deacon again. Then he turned her eyes back to her, “Whatever you decide, I want to see you and your son when you get back, you hear? And in one piece.”

      Sol took a deep breath and opened her eyes, “I can’t promise anything,” She smiled weakly, “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I… I can never repay you.” He had given her a chance, something to grasp onto desperately and she wouldn’t waste it, “But,” She didn’t need to put him in any more danger than she already had. There was no way of knowing what would await her when she found Kellogg, and she was reluctant to even bring Deacon. If she wasn’t positive he would follow her anyway, she would tell him to go home, “Goodbye, Nick.”

      “Good luck, doll, you’re going to need it.” His voice was kind, reassuring, and she almost felt guilty leaving him behind. He handed her the cigar box, which she tucked into her pocket. It was for the best, she told herself, and gestured for Deacon to follow her as she strode toward the door.

      “A _pleasure_ , Mr. Valentine,” Deacon purred before leaving, unable to resist teasing the detective one more time. Sol tried to hide her smile but failed, shaking her head as she pushed back out into the city. She was surprised to find Dogmeat waiting for them outside of Kellogg’s house, sitting patiently.

      “Well, that saves me the trip of having to find your furry ass.” Sol gripped her shoulder, frowning. Of course it would be acting up at the moment she needed most to be alright. The dog whined and rubbed against her leg, “Hey, I’m fine, buddy. Promise. I’ve got a job for you though,” He looked up at her curiously, and she vaguely heard Deacon light his cigarette, “We’re going after Kellogg.”

      Deacon turned to face her, his forehead creased with thought, “Look, there’s something you need to know about Kellogg,” He shifted his weight back and forth, fidgeting with his hands, “He works for the institute, he’s like their Heavy. If he has Shaun, then they’re almost certainly involved.” She’d already suspected they might be, what with them having a hand in the rash of kidnappings across the Commonwealth, “Honestly, we might have better chances against a Courser.” There was worry hidden in his carefree tone.

      “You can go back to HQ, if you want.” There. She had given him an out, the ability to leave. If something happened to him, she couldn’t be blamed (but she _would_ blame herself, anyway). He probably wouldn’t take her up on the offer, and even if he did, she knew he would be upset. If there was anything she’d learned about Deacon in the past weeks, it was that he did _not_ like to be left behind.

      He regarded her seriously for a moment, lips pressed into a hard line, but then shook his head, “Not a chance.” The lighter was passed back to her, “It’s empty.”

      “Oh, yeah, thanks for the empty lighter back.” She rolled her eyes, placing her forgotten cigarette between her lips, “C’mere,” He obeyed with a quirk of his brow, hands smoothing over a grey jacket she wasn’t sure he was wearing a moment before. Sol held her cigarette steady and stood on her tiptoes, leaning up to press the end of her cigarette against the cherry of Deacon’s. He was surprised, his pale brows rising far above his glasses. At his sides, she saw his hands twitch, and she inhaled.

      Even though her cigarette was lit now, and her feet were flat on the metal catwalk, neither took a step away. They were only inches apart, and she could smell the scavenged soap they’d found on his skin. Sol looked up at him through dark lashes, heart thumping painfully against her chest. Her mouth felt dry, and she felt absolutely _tiny_ under his analytical gaze, “Not big on personal space, huh, boss?” He mumbled, quiet enough for only her ears to hear. Just was she opened her mouth to speak—

_Bark! Bark!_

      Whatever had been there between them for that brief moment was shattered when the dog started barking at her. Deacon’s face was irritatingly blank. She took a step, then two, backward and turned toward Dogmeat, “I hear you, I hear you,” She reassured him, mind moving back to the box of cigars in her pocket. Sol knelt to the ground, pulled the box out of her pocket, and let the dog smell the contents. When she looked back to Deacon, his covered eyes watching her as always, the ring on her left hand felt unbearably heavy.

      “Find Kellogg, boy. Find _Shaun_.”

      With that, she and Deacon were chasing after Dogmeat. It was a miracle there was still a trail to follow, and she wasn’t going to question the first bit of good luck she’d had since waking up. _Well_ , her eyes drifted to the man behind her, _second bit_. It was obvious to her that she would be dead by now if it hadn’t been for him, but she was as much responsible for his survival as he was for hers. Who else was going to nag him to use a stimpak until he did? Certainly not Glory or Dez.

      With each new place they came across, she could feel her hope dwindling just a little more. Every location had blood and corpses, and while it was useful for Dogmeat’s tracking of Kellogg, it left a heavy knot in her stomach. She picked up yet another Gwinett Stout bottle, “Maybe we should bring him a six-pack,” Her right hand gripped the bottle tightly, anger swirling violently in her stomach, “Throw it at his _fucking_ head.” Sol threw the bottle as hard as she could at the tunnel wall, glass shattering into a thousand pieces. It glimmered up at her in the dying sun, like the ground was covered in crystals.

      Deacon laid a hand on her good shoulder and she deflated, rage draining out of her, “I just want my son back.” She blinked away tears that started to build, unable to hide the pain in her voice. The ache in her chest only grew each day she didn’t know where he was, who he was with, or if he was even alive. Mama Murphy had told her Shaun was alive, but she had her doubts.

      “Shaun _is_ out there, and we’ll find him together. That’s a promise.” His words nearly made her come undone. She was _so_ close to the edge, just a hair’s breadth from tumbling over into the abyss. Gently, she laid her hand atop his on her shoulder, “We can’t be far now.” She said nothing, only reluctantly moving away from him after a long moment. Deacon was too easy to rely on. His lies were too tempting and, sometimes, she believed him when he said these things. With him at her side, it felt like she _would_ find her son.

      It would be the end of her but as she watched him nudge Dogmeat toward her, she couldn’t bring herself to care, “Let’s get going before Kellogg starts moving again.” She tried her best to keep her tone level, but she only managed to sound _tired_. Sol wanted to lay down and sleep for six months straight.

      But there were things she needed to do first, and revenge was one of them. The trail took them west, closer to the edges of the glowing sea than she would have liked. It had been a mess of rotting train tracks and feral ghouls for the second half of the journey, though she supposed the Deathclaw had been the highlight. They hadn’t actually fought it. She and Deacon had spotted it and, at the same time without an ounce of hesitation, _turned the fuck around_. All she had to do was think about the fierce aching in arm to remember what came from her last encounter with one.

      That had resulted in a detour, however, and Dogmeat had nearly lost the scent because of it. They had found it again, eventually, but it had shaken her how easily the rug could be pulled out from underneath her. She tried, she really did, to not get her hopes up. If she kept telling herself he wasn’t there, maybe she wouldn’t be as heartbroken when she didn’t find him.

      Fort Hagen was in fairly good condition and she could see why he’d holed himself up in a place like it. Easily defensible, if anyone could find a way inside, and the outside was wired up with turrets and mines, “Watch your step, it’s like the damn Switchboard again. What is it with these minefields _everywhere_?”

      “Everyone likes an explosive entrance!” He was laughing at his own pun while she groaned, tossing a piece of something, probably the wall now that she thought about it, at him, “Do you ever stop making puns?”

      “Aww, don’t you think I’m,” He snorted, laying a hand over his heart, “Punny?”

      “You’re a lot of things, Deacon, half of which I can’t say in front of Dogmeat.” Sol rolled her eyes, rubbing at her left shoulder. It had been bothering her the entire way. Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, burning pain would radiate down the length of her arm, pulsing, for several minutes before it tapered off.

      “We have a plan?”

      “Not really. I’ve kind of been making it up as I go,” Sol shrugged, rubbing up and down the back of Dogmeat’s neck as he sat at her side, “I figure we go in guns blazing, Kellogg smears us into a puddle on the ground.” Her eyes flicked toward Deacon, “Suggestions?”

      “We give Dogmeat a good rest while we pay a little visit to our mutual friend.” Deacon adjusted his sunglasses, setting them firmly on his nose, “And we see if there’s a back entrance. Front doors are for suckers.” He was always in favor of stealth. ‘Deacon’s in and out like a ghost bullshit’ as Glory had tactfully put when asking about the Op they’d run together. It _did_ tend to make things easier.

      Sol laughed, “It’s not like we could go through the front anyway,” It was boarded up and barricaded by more debris and sandbags than she could ever hope to lift, “There might be a side door in the parking garage?” She leaned over the concrete railing, trying to steal a peek at the parking, “I know my old practice had something like that, no one wanted to walk to the front door after we parked, and they just installed an elevator straight in the garage.”

      She could practically hear his brow raise, “Practice? What kind of practice?”

      “Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday, but we have things to do, Deacon,” It was cheap of her to use Shaun as a reason to avoid his questions, but she didn’t have it in her to answer pre-war questions at the moment, “More or less than twenty, you think?”

      Deacon took a few moments to think about her question, looking pensive, “From the looks of this place, and what I know about Kellogg, probably more. But who knows how big this place really is,” The Switchboard had been underneath a Slocum Joes, a donut shop, and she would have been surprised if this place didn’t have some kind of large, underground structures. Of all the places in the Commonwealth to have one, it would be this here.

      Leaving Dogmeat to rest by the blocked front entrance, she and Deacon slipped into the parking garage. Thankfully they’d done so without alerting the turrets, and she could only hope there weren’t any more inside. It was always a hassle to hack the turrets. Since she’d couldn’t pick locks anymore, Sol was focusing her efforts on hacking. It could be done with one hand, and she had experience from before the war. If there was a locked door or safe, there was usually a terminal nearby to hack into if she truly felt like getting inside.

      The garage was quiet and crumbling, the only source of light a burning garbage can on the other side of the room. There were dozens of rusty, hollowed out cars. Some of them still had skeletons in them, faded rags covering their old bones, “… Places like these are so unnerving,” She mumbled, looking around for a door. Each of those cars had belonged to a person, someone who was just going to work the day the bombs dropped. It was surreal to be surrounded by constant reminders of the world before, it was like they didn’t belong.

      “Hey, boss, look!” Sol yelped when she spotted Deacon standing on a shopping cart, a foot on either side of the basket, “No hands!” He wobbled unsteadily, hands spread out, but his face twisted as he realized the mistake he’d made, “Woah— _Oh shit._ ” She laughed when he fell to the ground, shopping cart clattering noisily on top of him, but felt guilty after she did.

      “God, Deacon—Why are you always doing these things?” She asked exasperatedly, hurrying over to him and pushing the cart off, “You’re going to break your neck one of these days, and then what am I supposed to tell Dez, huh? _Sorry_ , Dez, I just couldn’t stop him. He was on top of the thing before I could do anything! And then, well, you know how he was.”

      He was laughing himself, already sitting up. But he also seemed to be searching for something, and she realized why when she turned her gaze back to his face, satisfied he hadn’t hurt himself during the fall.

_His eyes are blue._

      The ever-present sunglasses were strangely absent, and she reasoned they must have fallen off during his crash, but she found herself at a loss for words. Deacon was a very private, closed-off person. She knew it well enough in herself to see in another person. He could fool people into thinking they knew him when they truly knew less than nothing, and it was to his advantage. Those glasses were part of it, keeping people from looking too deeply below the surface.

      But without his sunglasses hiding his eyes from her, she saw _everything_. Every emotion that ran through his head flickered in his eyes, and every thought he had shown shone in them. For a moment, Deacon was utterly vulnerable and she had no idea what to say, “… You have nice eyes.” She could have slapped herself for saying something so stupid. He had nice eyes? _Very_ smart, Sol, he’s going to be very impressed with your vocabulary.

      He rolled his eyes—It was odd seeing it happen, rather than just watch his brow move and crease, “Dez is probably waiting for you to come back to HQ with that bad news,” The way he said ‘bad news’ left a bitter taste in her mouth, and his searching fingers found his glasses, “Do I? Sometimes even I forget.” She offered him her right hand, but he stood on his own. There was a strange look in his eyes, one she couldn't identify, but he was moving away from her. Within seconds, his eyes were covered again and he was swinging his arm in an ‘after you’ motion.

      Sol frowned, but hid the conflict on her face well. There was a scuffed blue door around the next corner when they continued on, and it was surprisingly unlocked, “Unlocked door in the middle of the garage? This isn’t suspicious at all.” Deacon chimed in to her left, but she didn’t respond. The door was unbearably heavy, or so it seemed, when she pushed it open into the fort.

            “Let’s go before I lose my fucking nerve,” Her voice was quiet and unsteady even to her own ears, and a sinking feeling started to form in her. She feared it might grow and grow until it swallowed her up, though it might have been a more welcome experience than drudging their way through the dilapidated fort. At least she knew what was waiting for her in that dark hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So this took a while because I started typing and didn't want to stop, in case it made me loose my train of thought? This was 6500 words, but I split in half because that was a lot to throw at you guys 
> 
> Interestingly enough, that line about Shaun? It's an actual, ingame piece of dialogue Deacon said to Sol the other night while going after Kellogg, and I just had to include it. Also, the fact that Deacon doesn't mention Kellogg at all to you after you talk to Nick, despite knowing who he is, always bothered me? So I fixed it! I don't think Deacon would keep info relevant to them living through a fight to himself?
> 
> Let me know about any mistakes or improvements you think I could make? I'm doing this all on my own, and I'm totally guilty of missing typos or writing sentences that don't make sense because my thought changed halfway through, but I didn't change it
> 
> The kudos and comments you all leave mean so much to me! Seriously, it makes me want to write this even more, and that's saying a lot because I love these fuckin' nerds. Happy Holidays, and I hope you all are having an amazing winter c:


	11. Hell Hath no Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't make her feel better.

      There were more than twenty synths (24, to be exact. Yes, she did keep count). Kellogg had packed them into the fort like sardines, and she hadn’t been covered in this much oil since their old station wagon had—Sometimes she had to remind herself there was no old station wagon anymore, and no little blue house with Nate’s armchair and her aunt’s old couch. Her home still lay untouched back in Sanctuary, despite the work that had been going on in the rest of the neighborhood.

      Her eyes drifted back to Deacon as he swept through the room they’d just cleared, looking for any stragglers. She hadn’t taken him to Sanctuary yet, though she’d been meaning to. Preston and the Minutemen, those they could gather anyway, had been staying in and rebuilding the settlement since Concord. They would exchange letters on progress when they could, and she had seen the curious looks the runners and the envelopes had garnered from her companion. It would never be her home, but she could make it home for other people. She could do that much.

      It had walls, defenses, clean water, and a steady supply of food. Even if the old neighborhood was nothing more than a ruined reminder of what she’d lost to her, it could be a symbol of hope for others. It truly could be a Sanctuary, and a little part of her thought Deacon might be proud to see her helping people. It was better than wallowing in dilapidated houses and clinging to the ashes of things long gone.

      “S’all clear boss,” Deacon waved at her from across the room, “How many synths does this make? Thirty-one?”

      “Twenty-four.” She snorted loudly, shoving more energy cells into one of the bags she and Deacon carried around. They were mostly full of junk she collected, but they had their uses. No one in Sanctuary could say they ever ran out screws, gears, or cloth, “I wonder—“

      “Well, if it isn’t my old friend, the frozen TV dinner. “ Everything in the world froze. His voice brought back a rush of memories and she could _see_ Nate, his bloodied body, in front of her, “The last time I saw you, you were taking a nap cuddled up to the peach cobbler.” Sol couldn’t breathe, her chest tightening, and the world around her became muffled. Deacon’s head was whipping around, looking for the source of Kellogg’s voice, but it was coming from a speaker above their heads.

_It was him, he was here, she was going to be sick._

      She wanted to scream at him, but she knew he wouldn’t hear her. There was no intercom for her to rage at, no door to beat her hands against. It was like the vault all over again, she was helpless. Nothing felt real, and it was like she was lifting away from the world. Cold crept back into her skin and it was like breathing the air of the pod again, leaving her lips chapped and numb. Her entire body shook, and her left arm burned something fierce, but she could only distantly feel them. There was more talking, but it was far away, sounding like cotton had been stuffed in her ears.

      For a moment, one _horrible_ moment, she _was_ in the vault. She was in her pod, pounding against the glass, and then Nate was dying again. Kellogg was in front of her pod, and—

      “Boss! Hey, boss, come on,” Deacon sounded worried, and Sol was suddenly aware she was on the floor, back pressed tightly against a file cabinet. Her shoulder was screaming at her and she sagged, right hand flying to cradle it, “Sol, can you hear me?” Hearing her name, the one for _this_ world, brought her back to it a little more, “Breathe, boss, you’re _safe_.”

      He was kneeling on the floor, a couple of feet away. He must have known better than to touch her, “… Did that asshole finally shut up yet?” She croaked, trying to find the strength to move her limbs. Sol was no stranger to flashbacks or to panic attacks since leaving the Vault, but that one had been intense and left her feeling spent.

      Deacon smirked a little and, as her senses returned to her, she smelled smoke. Her eyes were drawn to the source, a smoking gunshot into the loudspeaker above, “I mean, he might still be broadcasting to himself in his lair, monologueing, but we lost the connection.” Despite everything, despite _herself_ , she laughed.

      “Who does he think he is, calling me a tv dinner? With a name like _Kellogg_.” Maybe if she kept herself laughing, she could get through this nightmare, “I’m above making such an obvious, distasteful pun.”

      “I’m not!” Before he could, she covered it with her hand. His nose scrunched up and she laughed, not letting him continue with his pun. Her laughter turned into screeching when he _licked_ her palm, and she yanked her hand away, “That’s what you _get._ ” He smirked, laughing at her.

      “Fuckin’ gross, Deacon!” Sol wiped her hand furiously on her coat, “Ew, ugh,” She made several more noises of disgust, swatting at Deacon’s hands when they went to help her up, “You’re so nasty, Deacon, I can’t take you anywhere.” She huffed, not fighting his hands the second time they moved in, “You’re like the chihuahua that pisses on everything.” She slung her right arm over his shoulders, and his left arm wrapped firmly around her waist. Sol pushed herself off the ground with her legs at the same time he lifted her.

      “Woof, woof,” He said seriously, though the smile on his face ruined the effect, “If he’s complaining at us though, we must be close to the end of the labyrinth.” Sol leaned on him for support for just a moment longer, taking guilty comfort in his arm curled around her. If he noticed or knew, he didn’t say, and for that she was more than grateful.

      Several minutes later, with her footing regained, they parted continued on in the command center. Though Kellogg’s voice harassed them the whole way there, and memories pushed at her thoughts, she found her strength returning. Replacing her despair and pain was anger. She had never been violent, she kept telling herself, but there were some things she had to do.

      There had been a skeleton with a password along the way, one Deacon had teased her for taking, and she had teased him back when it opened the armory terminal. There had been extra ammo and several guns behind the security door. She added a double-barreled shotgun to their growing collection of weapons. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, a tiny voice wondered when ‘their’ had come to mean she and Deacon (and Dogmeat, most of the time).

      The fat man had been the most interesting piece in there, and she’d made Deacon carry it. Never knew when they could use a heavy weapon, and she loaded up the one mini-nuke that had been beside it, “Never used one of these things before,” Deacon commented as she pushed open another set of doors, entering a room full of security doors, “I hear they leave a nice hole behind.”

      “The big ones certainly do,” It was all she said, leaving it at that. When she glanced left, her heart stopped. Kellogg was on the other side of the doors, with four or five synths meandering about the closed-off room with him, “We need to find a way inside there,” Her voice was quiet, and she pointed toward set of blue metal doors, “Think this will take us around?”

      “It’s not like it could lead us anywhere worse.”

      “I don’t know, there could be a basement full of Mirelurks or something,” Her right hand opened and closed quickly several times, like a claw, “Just… Be ready to use that thing, yeah? I have a bad feeling about this, Deacon.” Maybe it was just herself, still shaken from her episode earlier in the fort, but every instinct she had was screaming that she was walking into something she shouldn’t be.

      There were no more synths along the way, only a few staircases and a good number of winding turns, “This thing is _heavy_ , boss,” Deacon whined from behind her, the fat man clanking a little as he adjusted it on his shoulder, “I bet I could just swing this thing and take people out.” He swung one arm out, laughing, “Ey, batter, batter, ey, batter, swing!”

      “How do you even know about baseball?” Sol asked incredulously, “I mean, yeah, there’s Moe in the city, but he’s a dumbass.” She shrugged at his snort, “What? I can’t believe he honestly thinks we beat each other to death with the bats, like some gladiatorial sport.” There was a moment at the stop of the stairs where she looked thoughtful, “Well, we had those, but they weren’t _baseball_.” Boxing, wrestling, and MMA? Now those were more along those lines, but what could she expect? These were people who celebrated pre-war holidays because of ancient advertisements.

      “Aww, so you guys didn’t actually go around chasing each other like raiders on psycho? Bummer.” Sol didn’t believe that he bought Moe’s story, but she would let him lie to her. It was what he did, and she wouldn’t deny him whatever comfort it brought him. She had her own lies, her own pain, to cover, and she wouldn’t judge him for his.

      “Not usually. People _did_ get really upset about that one call in the last world series though…” She trailed off, turning left down the next hallway. There was a security door, like the ones in the room with Kellogg, and she knew that the time had come. Sol didn’t want to go in, though she knew she had to. Whatever was in there would change her life again and that terrified her. There was only so much change she could take, “Stay here,”

      “And do what?”

      “Wait for the signal, _duh_.”

      Deacon raised a brow, trying to keep the fat man on his shoulder, “And what signal would that be?”

      “Screaming, probably,”

      “So the usual?”

      “You’re such a smartass.”

      “Takes one to know one.” They were stalling, and they both knew it. Neither of them had any idea what awaited them, and the unknown was often a death sentence. He nodded once at her, and then she was opening the door. When she spotted Kellogg, hands up, she wanted nothing more than to make him _beg_.

      “So, you made it this far. Let’s talk then.” His voice triggered something inside of her, something wild and angry and broken.

      “You killed my husband! You _killed_ him and _stole_ my fucking son,” She was shaking, shaking so hard she could barely hold herself upright, “Why?” Her voice cracked, “ _Why us?_ ” Asking him the questions she’d been throwing at his ghost didn’t help any more than asking the after-image.

      “That was… Regrettable.” Kellogg started, his brows lowering in what she thought might be regret, but she refused to acknowledge that, “And you don’t need to worry about your son, he’s in a better place,”

      “Oh god, _oh God_ , you killed him—” Sol sounded hysterical even to herself and she could barely think past that thought that he had, maybe, killed her son. It tore a hole in her chest bigger than anything loosing Nate could have left behind. It was like the wind had been knocked out of her

      “No, he’s safe, just… Not here.” He shrugged his shoulders, waving around _that_ gun a little. If she heard it fire, she was sure she would remember the vault again. When she killed him, she would have to scrap it or give it to someone she would never have to look at again, “He’s with the Institute now, a little older than you were expecting, and that’s all there is to it.”

      “I don’t care where he is!” Sol snarled, able to recover a little knowing her son was alive, “Here, _the Institute_ , it doesn’t matter,” Rage built in her chest, giving her strength she didn’t know she had, “I’ll find him, I’ll find my son, and nothing and no one will stop me.” A little older? God, how long had she been asleep? She would lose herself if she thought of that right then.

      “Ha! It’s strange. I find myself… Kind of liking you. You act like a parent should, you might have even been a good mother,” He was looking at her now, eyes boring holes into her, “But, I think we’ve talked long enough as it is. We both know how this has to go down.”

      Sol saw something in his eyes, something so familiar to herself that it scared her, and she knew as well as he did. They were two sides of the same coin, everything taken from them, and they had to claw their way to air through the blood, the filth, and the world, “… For what it’s worth, Kellogg, I’m sorry.” And she was. Sorry for him, sorry for her husband, sorry for her world, and sorry for what she was about to do.

      She was sorry she couldn’t forgive him.

      He raised his pistol and she dashed back into the hallway as fast as she could, yelping as a bullet whizzed past her head, barely missing and burying itself in the concrete wall inches from her head, “Oh, hey, is this the signal?” Deacon quipped, sounding irritated from around the hallway’s corner.

      “ _Yes!_ Just shoot the damn thing, Deacon!” She yelled over the roar of gunfire, “Shit! Hey, this is my favorite jacket you tin can!” Sol screeched when a synth fired its energy pistol at her, burning a hole in her coat. Luckily, the material was thick enough to save her skin from burns.

      Deacon threw himself out of cover, “I can’t believe I’m about to do this!” He fired the fat man anyway, the mini-nuke barreling toward the middle of the room. He dropped the fat man as soon as he fired it, grasped the hood of her jacket, ignoring her protests, and yanked her back around the corner. She was pulled to his chest, and then the front of her pressed to the wall, his body covering her back.

      The explosion rocked the building and fiery debris rocketed into the hallway, slamming through the area she had just been. Sol squeezed her eyes shut, pressing closer to the wall. Deacon’s arms were on either side of her, shielding her, and they huddled like that for several minutes trying to avoid the ricocheting shrapnel. A piece of metal nicked her cheek, two inches below her eye, but she barely felt it. Unbearable heat radiated from the room, and several smaller explosions happened in a chain reaction just as she thought it was over. She flinched, and Deacon tensed even more, if possible.

      Obviously some of the old computers had not liked being exposed to a nuclear weapon, and she felt Deacon press closer against her back as another one exploded with an angry sound, “Next time we find a fat man, _you_ can shoot it.” He grumbled, turning his head back toward the ruined hallway. It was filled with fire, smoke, and twisted metal, but it seemed like the explosions had finally tapered off.

      Sol was suddenly aware of how warm and solid Deacon was now that they were out of danger. She took in a sharp breath, “Oh, yeah, I’ll totally carry it around the whole time, that won’t kill my arm _at all._ ” He took a step back, sighing heavily, and she pushed herself off of the wall. She could still feel him pressed against her, heart racing in his chest, and his breathing quick, “You think there’s anything left?”

      He had composed himself it seemed, standing lightly slouched and rolling his shoulders, “Maybe? Probably no one left alive, though.”

      Familiar nausea flooded her. Kellogg was _dead_ , and she felt no better than she did before. Nate had been avenged and she only felt achingly empty. This world had changed her, maybe even ruined her, but she could never go back to the life she had before. Despite all of the death, radiation, and monstrosities, it was _hers_. Perhaps it was the only thing that ever truly been hers. Guilt flooded her as she thought it, feeling as though she were betraying people who had been dead for centuries.

      Sol watched Deacon wander into the room as she thought, and realization flooded her. Whatever this was, hiding in the dark from deathclaws or hunting bad guys in a costume, it was something she couldn’t give up. It was _home_ , and she had lost too many of those as it was.

      “You comin’, boss?”

      A small smile curved her lips, “What, miss my mug already? You _just_ turned around.” They laughed, and it was _enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it! Whatever you celebrate, I hope you're having a wonderful time c:
> 
> So here's the other half of Kellogg's chapter! I ran into an issue with my Christmas chapter and I have to rewrite it because my computer is stupid, so Christmas might be on the 26th this year XD
> 
> Oh! If anyone is interested in seeing what Sol looks like, here's a few links below!
> 
> http://36.media.tumblr.com/865740ef57c1f4ca7d446f54119add7a/tumblr_nzod7049u31u472i1o1_1280.jpg  
> http://41.media.tumblr.com/294cec7f99317f7f88f448f8a8a8ac12/tumblr_nzod7049u31u472i1o5_1280.jpg


	12. Of the Same Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kellogg wasn't so different from herself, she realized, and it was a frightening thought.

      Kellogg was dead and she felt no better than she had before. She had thought that, maybe, his death would ease the ache in her chest. Sol hated how much she’d reveled in his death. When the bomb had gone off, sick pleasure flooded her. Kellogg was _burning_ , Nate had been _avenged_ , and she had taken everything from him, like he’d taken everything from her. Kellogg was in _Hell_ , waiting for her to kick his ass again.

      So why did she feel so _empty_?

      She and Deacon had combed the wrecked room, trying to find anything that could point them in the direction of her son. Kellogg’s body had been thrown by the blast under his, mostly, unharmed desk. He was more machine than man, she discovered, his body filled with tech and metal. At least it had, somewhat, kept his body together during the blast.

      Sol, not really paying attention to what she was collecting, took various pieces off his body. _Something_ on him had to be useful, right? He had been hunting someone, the entries on his terminal indicated that much, and she wondered if his quarry might be an ally. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all of that. Deacon had been silent since leaving the hallway. Maybe, somehow, he knew how close to breaking she was.

      Leaving Fort Hagen was another story entirely. When they walked out, they were met by flashing, bright lights and a booming voice echoing from intercoms. An enormous airship hung in the air ominously, a half dozen Vertibirds hovering around the main ship. Deacon, who had been lagging behind her (she’d wanted to escape Kellogg’s ruined face quickly), was horrified. His mouth dropped open and his glasses slid down his nose as he raised his whole face in surprise.

      The Brotherhood of Steel, come with peaceful intentions? _Bullshit._ No matter what they said, a military force arriving unannounced in a new area was usually an act of war. That thought filled her with terror, and she realized she needed to make a trip back to Sanctuary. Maybe, just _maybe_ , Preston would have an idea. Something told her the everyday people, the settlers they’d helped, were not high on the list of concerns for the soldiers holed up on the ship.

      They glanced at each other, a singular moment of ‘Well, _shit_ ’ passing between them, and then they were hopping down the fire escape from the roof. They were sitting ducks on top of the roof, and she _refused_ to be shot down by some asshole in a plane after surviving a deathclaw attack. Dogmeat was, somehow, waiting at the base. Sometimes, she thought that dog might be smarter than she was.  

      Diamond City was be their first stop on the way to Sanctuary, she’d promised she would see Nick. The old detective was kind and the worry that edged into his tone when he sent her off had been comforting. Going back to Nick empty-handed though, that had been hard. Sol forced herself to ignore the look of pity in the synth’s luminescent eyes when she told him. She’d _failed_ , she didn’t need any more reminding of that.

      “The _Institute_ has him.” Sol spat out bitterly, feeling rage coil in her belly, “They—” Her voice cracked and she winced. She knew they were looking at her, all of them, and she wanted nothing more than to run from their eyes. Wasn’t she allowed to mourn? Didn’t she _deserve_ to be angry? It was all so _unfair_ —She grit her teeth, “They’re going to regret leaving me alive in that pod.”

      “Blue…” It took every ounce of strength she had left to not snap at Piper’s soft, concerned whisper. She didn’t deserve that, her anger was aimed at someone else and Piper had been nothing but kind to her. Even if she was a little more invasive than she would have liked. There were questions she asked, and Sol never held them against her, that were things better left unasked.

      “I’m fine.” It was a lie, perhaps the biggest lie she’d told since waking up. Her voice was surprisingly steady, and Piper closed her mouth but still eyed Sol warily. Nick, who had been smoking a cigarette as per usual, cut in. Despite her best efforts to remain neutral, she couldn’t help but shudder when he mentioned the memory den. Sol didn’t let him know she was already _very_ familiar with Doctor Amari. In addition to her first trip to the memory den, she’d made another trip as Bullseye.

      For a moment, her mind was drawn to the Railroad. She was saving synths with an underground, secret organization. It was the stuff of fiction and bad spy novels. Sometimes her life didn’t seem real. If someone had told her, when she was a lawyer screaming at a judge for some reason or another, that the world was going to end, she would have laughed at them. She would have laughed even harder when they told her what she would become. Though ‘become’ might have been the wrong word. The woman Sol had been before was dead, she died on the floor of that vault, lost to her grief.

      Sol had been born of what was left. The rest of the conversation was blur to her, as was the trip to Goodneighbor. It was their second stop, and it had been unbearably tense since leaving Nick’s office. They both knew she wasn’t anywhere near alright, but he didn’t try to force the issue. She was grateful for that, knowing Piper or Nick wouldn’t have left her alone. Deacon was still a mystery to her despite the time they’d been traveling together.

      He put forth a calm, collected visage and anything that tried to disturb that was deflected with his particular brand of humor. There were odd things he said, phrases and metaphors he shouldn’t have known. The most frightening thing about Deacon, however, was that he wasn’t _really_ Deacon. It didn’t even make sense to herself, and yet it did, in a strange way. Deacon was, and was not, himself. Sol was sure Deacon was another lie, a persona, but it was a nice lie.

      Sol liked to be lied to, sometimes. To be told it wasn’t her fault, that there was nothing she could’ve done, and that it would be okay.

      If she had thought drowning in her own memories was bad, it was nothing compared to wading through someone else’s. Amari had said it would be disorientating, experiencing the memories as Kellogg himself, but even with warning it was incredibly jarring. It was like breathing in water, suffocating, but she was still alive. As she searched through his memories, his voice echoing in her head, she felt a small measure of sympathy for Kellogg.

      He had lost a spouse and a child, just as she had. It had been his fault, he hadn’t been able to stop them, and it struck her how similar they were. How could he have done such a thing, knowing the pain that never fades? Kellogg was a _monster_.

      But, then again, so was she.

      How many lives had she taken in her quest to find Shaun? How many for the Railroad? The Minutemen? Those people might have had parents, children, lovers. There was so much blood on her hands—Too many thoughts and words and images ran through her mind. It was giving her a headache.

      Watching him kill Nate again, while _being_ him… It was indescribable. The grief she felt stormed under the surface, hidden by Kellogg’s feelings washing over her. Their thoughts were intermingled, and she wasn’t sure where she began and he ended. It was strange to feel his emotions second-hand. Regret tasted bitter, and panic felt cold along her spine. It was like his fingers were crawling across her skin. If she never stepped into another memory pod, it would be too soon.

      “I’m… I’m _so_ sorry you had to see that again.” Amari’s voice was no comfort. It only added to the buzz of sound in her mind.

      The final memory _devastated_ her.

      There he was, _Shaun_ , sitting on the carpet, surrounded by comics. There was a Fancy Lad cake in one hand, and he was penciling something into the comic with his other hand. She knew it was him, and not just because of the incessant narration of Kellogg in her brain. He turned his head toward her, as if he saw her, and she _knew_. Shaun had his father’s eyes, and she started to cry. Sol wasn’t sure that was possible while swimming in someone else’s memories, but she could swear she felt them.

      She walked toward him, reaching for the dark-haired boy. He was freckled and smiling and her heart ached. This was her son, the only person she had left. He was _so close_ —Her fingers passed through him like they passed through Nate—And yet so far. She curled her hand into a fist and closed her eyes, trying to will away the rush of emotion. They snapped open when a loud, electrical sound bounced off the walls suddenly.

      There was a man wearing sunglasses and a dark jumpsuit of some kind, speaking in a monotone voice. He had appeared out of nowhere in a flash of blinding blue light, and was collecting Shaun as she distantly heard him talking. As much as she wanted to fight him, to stop him, she couldn’t. This was the past, it had already happened, and nothing she could do would change that. However, it did give her a clue to how the Institute got people in and out of their facility, wherever it was. Teleportation was not going to be her first guess, but truth is stranger than fiction. Maybe that described her entire existence in the Wasteland.

      Sol felt like she needed support when Shaun called someone else Father. He’d never met Nate, never would, and it destroyed her that someone other than Nate was his father. _God_ —Did he call someone else mother too? It felt like her heart was tearing in two at that thought. _She_ was his mother! It should have been her, taking care of him and watching him grow up. He couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, but it was an eternity to her. She had missed _so_ much.

      His downturned nose was all her, and he smiled just like she did. He was _hers_ , and she would tear the Institute down to find him. They would _burn_ , burn like Kellogg had, and she would take her son home. Wherever that was now.

      He vanished in a flash of light, and Sol had never felt hollower.

      Leaving Kellogg’s memories was even more unpleasant than entering them, if possible. Where entering memories is like sinking into a deep pool of water, letting it wash over and consume you, exiting is harsher. You have to tug and pull and drag your way out, shaking off the ghosts of another person. They fight to keep you.

      The memories and whispers cling to her as the real world comes back, slowly and hazy, like she’d had half a bottle too much. Sol, despite still not seeing clearly, was pushing against the rising glass bubble. It was moving too slowly and she needed to breathe. The pod’s air felt like soup and there were still lingering memories there.

      Deacon was at her side suddenly, though for all she knew he was already standing there before she woke. It was difficult to think with her senses still dulled, and she was sagging with fatigue. Shakily, her fingers grasped at the edges of the pod and she tried to lift herself, feeling wobbly. He was leaning down a little, his hand laid on the small of her back, trying to help steady her as she moved up.

      Amari was talking to her, brows knit together tightly. Sol narrowed her eyes a little, as though it would help her hear better. The doctor’s mouth twisted, and she spoke just a little louder. Sol leaned on Deacon, who, to his credit, only adjusted himself to keep her upright easier, “Lay off the sweet rolls, Boss…” He teased her quietly, voice for her ears only, his arm curling around her waist.

      She snorted a little, his voice a little muffled still, “I’ll get right on that,” Her senses had nearly returned to her now, though she felt like a soft breeze might knock her to her ass, “Right after I never, ever look at a fancy lads snack ever again.” He raised a brow, and she was close enough to discern a color. She could have laughed. Deacon was a _ginger_. His face had gone unshaven for several days, and prickly red stubble covered his jaw.

      Doctor Amari stood in front of them, eyes boring into Sol, “Are you alright?” She asked warily, unsure if she could even answer, “We’ve never done anything like this before. Just… Take it slow,” Amari’s hands were out in front of her, as though encouraging Sol not to move.

      “Anyone catch the plates on the fucking truck that hit me?” She groaned, knocking her hip into Deacon as he laughed, “Shit, _Nick_ —Is Nick alright? That was,” Sol frowned, worried for the synth. Her time in the memories had been difficult, she had no idea how his might have been, “It was _intense_ on my end.” She wasn’t sure if that word fit the experience, but it was what she had.

      “Mr. Valentine, as far as I could tell,” The doctor’s eyes did not shift from her aching frame, “Is fine. He was the connection, you were the decryption. You were the only one living through Kellogg’s memories. That being said, however,” She rolled her shoulders nervously, “I cannot say there won’t be side effects for Mr. Valentine.”

      “Like?”

      “That is Mr. Valentine’s business, and I suggest you ask him if you want to know,” She gestured toward the ceiling, “He’s upstairs waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready.” Amari nodded at her once more and then turned toward the nearby terminal, “… You’re going after him, aren’t you? The escaped Institute scientist.”

      “Virgil? You know I have to, Amari.”

      “I know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The doctor sighed softly, brushing her bangs from her face, “Be careful out there, Bullseye. More people depend on you than you realize, and the Glowing Sea is an unforgiving place.” The doctor was a kind woman, one who cared far more than she might let on, and Sol would have talked to her for hours on any other occasion.

      “You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Amari.”

      “Then I’ll make _him_ promise me. At least he might humor me.” She crossed her arms even though her back was to them, “Don’t die out there, either of you.”

      Deacon wore an easy smile, but his arm was tight around her waist, “Easy peasy, Doc. We’ll be in and out before you can say ‘Radiation poisoning!’” She only gave him a scathing look, one that made it obvious she didn’t believe him. Amari knew to pick her battles, though, and took what she could get out of them.

      “… I can’t feel my legs still. When is this going to wear off?”

      “A few hours, give or take,” Amari mumbled dismissively, already focusing back on her endless stream of data. Sol puffed out her cheeks and tried to take a step, Deacon stepping with her. While her legs wobbled just a little, she was relieved that walking wasn’t impossible. With one last glance toward the doctor, she and Deacon were climbing the stairs out of the basement.

      Nick was upstairs like Amari had told her, but the encounter left her more shaken than she’d been. Nick had spoken, but it wasn’t Nick speaking. It wasn’t his voice, and his face moved in ways she hadn’t seen before. His features were pulled into unfamiliar, foreign expressions. Except they weren’t entirely foreign, not to her at least. He spoke like, his face moved like, and, she suspected, he _was_ for a moment, Kellogg. He looked… Smug.

      “Hope you got what you were lookin’ for in my head. _Heh_.” He chuckled ruefully, shaking his head a little, “I was right,” She narrowed her eyes and she could practically feel Deacon getting more and more anxious. He may not have been touching her anymore, the two of them having broken apart at the top of the stairwell, but it radiated off of him, “I should’ve killed you when you were on ice.” Vaguely, she heard Deacon take a step forward.

      “Yes, you should have.” Sol’s tone was cold, and she stared at him, “We’re both paying for that mistake now.” There was a flash of something in his glowing eyes, some distinctly _not_ Nick, and then it was gone.

      “Wha—Should have done what?” Nick said suddenly, face crunching up in confusion, “What mistake?”

      The tension bled out of the room instantly when his voice, his real voice, popped out of his mouth, “I... It’s nothing Nick, really. Don’t worry yourself about it, yeah?” Maybe she should have told him, but something told her no one would rest easy if she did. Besides, there had been a tone of finality in Kellogg’s voice. She had won, they both knew that, and it would be fruitless to fight now. Still, she worried.

      “You sure? You two look like you swallowed a couple o’ lemons.”

      “Ha! I mean, I am feeling a little sour,” Deacon hummed, and whatever awkwardness was left in the air vanished. He was good at that, changing subjects and easing tension, but that fact also made him difficult to have a real conversation with. Sol never knew if what he was telling her was true, if it even mattered, and she found herself with a too-familiar stranger.

      Nick groaned, rubbing his face with his hand, “Is he always like this?”

      “Unfortunately.”

      Sol wasn’t sure what she’d do without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I'm so sorry this took so long! A few chapters ago I mentioned I have a disability, right? It flared up and I was stuck in bed most of last and this week. And sorry no holiday chapter! I could barely write a sentence for days, and it's the 2nd, so I figured I missed the window. 
> 
> But anyway! I'm back and writing and here we are! I'm unsure where the next chapter is going. I have it in my mind to, maybe, have smut in the next one, but I'm not sure! 
> 
> I know it's a little strange I keep putting emphasis on very minor touches, but I have this headcanon I'm working off of. Touch-starved!Deacon who is at first surprised by how casually Sol will reach out for him, and he's touch-starved because his job will be easier if he's not attached to anyone or have anyone to worry about the boogeyman getting to. It gets to him, and honestly it's going to develop into 'Deacon and Sol are always touching in some way because they're insecure and Deacon can't keep his hands to himself once he's used to it' (I'm probably not articulating it well)
> 
> I hope this one is good! I kind of fogged up halfway through, but finished it c:


	13. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed, realizations are met, and Sol has a lot to think about.

      As soon as they crossed the bridge, they were met by Preston at the gates. From the start, Sol was insistent they wall in the settlement. It would be the best way to keep out wild animals, ferals, and any raiders that felt a little frisky. It had taken a while to gather enough materials to erect the walls, but she was glad to see the hard work had been worth it. It was strange to have Deacon and Preston in the same place. They were such separate parts of her life, the Railroad and the Minutemen. Having them collide…

      “General.”

      Sol wrinkled her nose, “Preston, you know I hate that.”

      He smiled warmly at her, “I know.” His smiled faded a little and his eyes grew serious, “You sounded worried in your letter. We heard about the Brotherhood of Steel, it’s all over any active radio station.” He shifted anxiously, tilting his head back and forth, “This… Doesn’t sound good, General.”

      “No, it doesn’t. That’s why I came here.” She gestured for him to walk through the gate, trusting Deacon to follow her in at some point, “How many of us are there? Everything I’ve heard about this Brotherhood has been bad.” They walked side-by-side, speaking in hushed tones. It wouldn’t be wise to let the settlers know that they were worried, it might incite a panic.

      “Ten settlers and three Minutemen, not including myself, are here. All together though?” Dim light shone on the cracked roads, reflecting off debris not yet scavenged for building. Helping the Minutemen rebuild had been something of an accident. After saving their lives, and then they saving hers, Sol had spent several weeks in Sanctuary.

      Preston had been her only company for that time, everyone else was too busy settling in. He told her stories and brought her food, and when he asked for her help as he reluctantly let her leave, she couldn’t say no. Tenpines Bluff had only been the beginning, and any settlement she helped would pledge their support to the Minutemen. He’d asked her to become General through one of their letters, and she found herself saying yes.

      “Did you hear me?” His face shone with concern. Preston was good man, better than any she’d met in the Commonwealth thus far, “I said we have around twenty Minutemen and probably double that in settlers.” For the most part, they stuck to rebuilding in the North. There were plenty of farms and few places to set up new settlements. Sunshine Tidings Co-op, which conveniently doubled as Mercer safe house, was probably the safest one the Railroad had. The settlers had even built Caretaker a little shack in the woods below the main settlement. A prideful little place inside of her thought that, one day, they would be places like Bunker Hill.

      “We’re not much, but we’ll put up a fight if the Brotherhood tries anything.” Sol had always been wary of any type of military, even with Nate being enlisted. There was something about them she couldn’t trust. They would lie to you, blatantly, and insist they were doing things for the so-called ‘Greater Good’. It was obvious they were out for themselves and not ‘freedom’ or ‘peace’. She had no doubts that this Brotherhood would be similar.

      Preston had a small shack near the center of Sanctuary, and a guard post on the roof. She could understand his want to watch over the settlers, especially with what had happened in Quincy, Lexington, and then Concord, “They’re making the old Boston airport their base of operations.” Settlers waved at them as they passed, and she spotted Mama Murphy sitting in her chair under a driveway overhang, “But I have an idea.”

      “At least one of us does. The airport? Damn, that’s a fortified place.” She frowned, turning with Preston as he turned toward his shack, “Deacon and I watched them arrive. No one brings that many soldiers for peace. Not unless they’re going to force their own version of peace down our throats.”

      Having heard his name, Deacon joined the conversation, “I’m calling bullshit on their whole ‘we come in peace’ spiel. The Brotherhood isn’t exactly known for peace, or helping people. Not anymore, at least.”

      “Anymore?” She and Preston asked at the same time, though Sol continued on herself, “What do you know about the Brotherhood of Steel? I have a bad feeling we can’t avoid them for long.” Deacon nodded solemnly, agreeing with her.

      “Back in Capital Wasteland, they weren’t bad. They even helped people sometimes. But,” He frowned, adjusting his glasses, “That was under Elder Lyons leadership. She was KIA a few years back, but no one really believes that.”

      Preston interjected, “If they’re anything like the Minutemen were, it sounds like someone higher-up didn’t like how things were being done.” He hadn’t told her everything, but he had told her enough to know the Minutemen were victims of their own hubris. When they needed most to band together, corruption cracked their foundation and no one came.

      “You can say that again,” Deacon snorted, “Ever since Elder Maxson took over, they’ve become greedy, selfish tin cans pretending they’re doing the ‘right thing’ by keeping tech out of the hands of,” He lifted his forefinger, “And I quote,” His fingers made air-quotes, “The uneducated masses.” He shook his head, “Not to mention they want to wipe out synths and ghouls.”

      Sol scoffed, “Sounds like the same bullshit the military were feeding people back in my day,” She wrinkled her nose up, “Oh God, now I’m _sounding_ old.” They laughed at her and Preston unlocked the door into his home. It was cozy and warm, a little stove burning in the corner. The furniture, a red couch and a few mismatched chairs, were clean and patched. Sol smiled, he must have done it himself. There was another door to their left, slightly ajar, and she assumed it must have been his bedroom.

      “Don’t worry, _General_ ,” Deacon teased her, his hand between her shoulder blades, “You look good for your age.”

      Sol could feel heat gathering in her cheeks, “Deacon—” She felt stupid, like a teenage girl being complimented by a boy for the first time. For God’s sake, she was thirty years old! But here she was, feeling half her age. She cleared her throat, trying not to think about the burning on her face, “You’re such an _ass_. Stop teasing me!”

      “You know you love me.”

      It struck her like a train at full speed. Everything just _clicked_. She loved him. No, she was _in_ love with him. It was like the air had been suck from her lungs, and she only hoped her face didn’t show her realization. Sol forced herself to laugh, but it sounded horrendously fake to her ears, “Only in your dreams, Deacon.” She shrugged away from his hand suddenly, and she didn’t miss the look of hurt that twisted his features for a moment. It made the guilt gnawing at her insides grow.

      She entered the house after Preston, and Deacon lingered near the door. He leaned on the wall next to it, watching them as she and Preston settled around a small table covered with paperwork and surrounded by four wooden chairs, “We have enough settlements under our protection that we’re having trouble communicating with everyone, even with the provisioners,” They’d been struggling to establish trade routes, but it was hard to keep track of caravans if no one could send word between stops. It was even more difficult because she was constantly traveling.

      “But what does that have to do with your idea?”

      “I’m getting to that. A long time ago, before my time, the Minutemen had a fortified HQ themselves.” His hands twitched and she knew the stress getting to him if he wanted to smoke. Preston hated smoking, she had learned that early on, but he still smoked anyway. Every time his eyes darkened, he would reach for one. Whatever his full story was, it couldn’t have been good. Sol laid a hand over one of his. He smiled at her a little.

      “Tell me more.”

      “It was a fort. It used to be called Fort Independence, but we just call it the Castle.” Sol’s brows knit together. Fort Independence? If her geography was right, and it might not have been after the bombs dropped, but the fort was on the coast to the south, “There’s a radio beacon there, and it’s strong enough broadcast across the entire Commonwealth.” In fact, it wasn’t far from…

      “You’re a genius! Not only can we solve the caravan issues, it’s not that far from the airport, and we can keep an eye on the Brotherhood from there,” She stopped suddenly, something like dread settling in her belly, “… What happened to the Castle?”

      Preston laughed, looking embarrassed at her praise, but then he looked thoughtful, “The, uh, the stories say some kind of monster came out of the sea and destroyed the fort, killing everyone inside.” He pulled his hand from hers as he straightened out the papers scattered over the table. A few of them were her letters, and some were his own half-finished, never sent letters.

      “A sea monster? Fifty caps says it’s fucking Mirelurks.”

      “Without a doubt, they’re infesting the entire coast,” Deacon’s sunglasses flashed at her in the soft lighting of Preston’s home, and he sounded disgusted, “You’re not actually thinking about retaking the Castle though, are you?” Deacon didn’t like the Minutemen, he’d told her as much, though she wondered if he was fully aware of her involvement with them. If he wasn’t before, he was now.

      Sol lifted her chin and stared straight back at him, “Yes, I am. What else am I supposed to do, huh?” She shook her head, “Let my caravans get lost or raided? How about let people live in the dark, without any communication with others?” Her arm started to burn, beginning at her shoulder and crawling down her upper arm. Sol clenched her jaw, trying to focus on anything but the _pain_ , “Am I supposed to let the Brotherhood hover in the Commonwealth with no one watching them?”

      “And just what are the Minutemen going to do if the Brotherhood attacks?” Deacon asked her skeptically, “They’ve got serious firepower, power armor, and you have two dozen average Joes who can barely hold a gun, let alone fight against a trained army.”

      “We fight back anyway, to the last man.” Preston interjected, brows knitting together as he regarded Deacon, “Your letters said he wanted to help people.” Sol could have strangled Preston in that moment. Deacon didn’t need to know she talked about him in her letters. The pain reached her elbow and she winced, but she hope they thought it was embarrassment.

      “Aw, gushin’ about me to your bff?” He sounded condescending and Sol frowned deeply at him, “And I _do_ want to help people. Propping up some half-assed police force as the law of the land just isn’t the way to do that.”

      “For one thing, I’m not trying to lay down any law! I just want people to be able to live safely,” She snapped, pain wearing her patience thin, “What do you suggest then, Deacon? Kill the monsters for them and hope they’ll be okay when they, inevitably, come back?” She was starting to get up, but Preston laid a hand on her right shoulder.

      “General…” He said softly, “People say a lot of things about us, and not without reason. We just have to prove to them,” He was looking at Deacon again, “And to him,” Sol winced again before settling back down in the chair, “That we’re better this time, we won’t let what happened before happen again.”

      “We’ll see, Garvey.” Deacon crossed his arms, “We’ll see.”

      Sol sighed, “Preston…”

      “I’ll gather a team in the morning, and we’ll meet you at the Castle in a couple of days.” He was completely ignoring Deacon’s presence now, and while she was tempted to do the same, she couldn’t. Sol could feel him burning holes into her back, _watching_. The pain reached her wrist and she couldn’t feel her fingers.

      “A couple of days? How long does it take to get the Castle?”

      “A day, if we don’t stop moving, but we need sleep.” He shuffled through the papers again, and she realized it was something of a nervous habit, “And I want to scout out the area around the fort before you arrive. Who knows what else could be living around there.”

      She nodded, “Just try not to make too much noise until we’ve secured the fort,” He threw her a curious look, brow raising high, “Deathclaws tend to nest further South, and I have zero doubts one could be wandering around there.” At the mention of Deathclaws, Preston paled a few shades. She could understand the reaction. Every time she thought of them, she could only think of rending, too-sharp claws and blood. They had both seen what a Deathclaw had done to her.

      He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and then she was pulling herself out of the chair, “Get some sleep tonight, Preston, we have a long few days ahead of us.” With that, she was heading for the door, brushing past Deacon was quickly as possible. Usually, he waited until she was a few feet ahead of him before following, but he was right on her heels the second she left the house.

      She only took a handful of steps before she couldn’t take him being so close any longer, and flipped around on him suddenly, “Goddamnit, Deacon, _what_?” Sol regretted snapping at him the moment she did so. The pain was only growing worse, and she actually considered using some of the Med-X buried at the bottom of her bag. He hadn’t been expecting her to turn on him, but he didn’t let it slow him down.

      “I can’t believe you’re about to do this,” His voice was a little harsh, angry if she thought about it, “You’re going to get yourself killed at this rate, but I think that might actually be your goal,” Sol squared her shoulders, trying to ignore the screaming of her left side. It was fierce, and she had no breaks between waves of pain.

      “I can handle myself, Deacon.” She forced out through gritted teeth, desperately wishing her arm would either stop hurting or just fall off already.

      “Not when you’ve been running yourself ragged!” His hands were tossed in the air exasperatedly, “First we took down Kellogg. That…” He shook his head, “We should have stopped after that, but I let us keep going.” Looking back now, Deacon hadn’t been happy they’d kept moving after meeting up with Nick again. Even less so when they didn’t stay the night in Goodneighbor, “Shit, you’ve barely slept in _days_ , Sol.”

      “I’m _fine!_ ” She couldn’t sleep. When she did, she saw their faces. Kellogg, Nate, Shaun, they ran through her head over and over and over again.

      “But you’re not!” Sol took a step back in surprise. Deacon never raised his voice, and she found herself snarling in response, “You might be able to lie to Piper, or to Nick, but you can’t lie to me.” She straightened her back, finding any response dying on her tongue. It was true, however much she didn’t want to admit it. Deacon, even if he didn’t call her out on it, always seemed to know when she was lying. It was their unspoken rule. Don’t shatter whatever illusion they’d setup for themselves, and let sleeping dogs lie.

     Only he wasn’t, not now. Sol had only spent a handful of hours resting since killing Kellogg. If she let herself relax, she would have to deal with what had happened. Her son was gone, hidden in whatever base the Institute had, and it was easier to throw herself into work than think about that fact. If she was running herself into the ground, that was _her_ business.

      Deacon’s hands twitched anxiously at his sides, curling and uncurling into fists, “And then you just jumped right back into that pod! Wasn’t the first time enough for you? You just _had_ to go back for seconds!” He froze up suddenly, mouth clamping shut. Horror washed over her, “Sol, wait—”

      “You… You _saw_ …” She gave up trying to conceal her pain, clutching at her left arm, “I knew you were following me. But I never thought…” Sol was shaking with rage, “You had _no_ right! _No right!_ ” She was practically screaming now, chest heaving as she took in ragged breaths, “Go…” She whispered, screwing her eyes shut.

      “Sol—” He was reaching for her, his brows lowered below his glasses. It was obvious he wanted to explain himself, to say anything that would ease the betrayal she felt, but Sol didn’t want to listen to him. She shook her head furiously.

      “Go!” His hands dropped, and his face contorted, “Go… Go back home or to HQ or… I don’t care, just _go_.” As soon it was out of her mouth, she wanted to take it back. She wanted to tell him to stay, that she needed him, that she _loved_ him.

      But she didn’t.

      Her pride wouldn’t let her. The stinging betrayal wouldn’t let her. He had seen her deepest, rawest pain. No, not only had he seen it, he had watched it without her knowledge and then kept it a secret after that. Deacon _knew_ , and had said nothing. It hurt more than her arm ever could.

      “… Not sure what my word’s worth to you,” He sounded bitter and she could have laughed, “But I _am_ sorry. I never meant—This isn’t what I wanted.” He lifted his hands once more and then let them fall to his sides, “C’mon, Sol, look at me.”

      Sol refused to look at him. If she did, she knew she would break into a million pieces in his arms, and she couldn’t let herself do that. To herself or to him. It wouldn’t be fair, and it wouldn’t be right. If she did, she was afraid she would never be able to put herself back together.

      He stared at her for a few more moments, expression unreadable, but the gathering crowd of settlers was unnerving them both. They had been attracted by the yelling, and people were always going to be nosy gossips, she supposed. Before they could find the two of them, Deacon was walking past her and into the inky shadows of midnight. As hard as she tried not to stare after him, she did.

      Sol _loved_ him, and he would never know if she had her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really like to thank you guys for the very kind comments and concern for my health. I'm feeling much better now and I just really, really appreciate it C:
> 
> I'm so sorry!!! This chapter didn't go at all the way I thought it would! But I like it anyway? Deacon has some OPINIONS on the MM and I thought it would be fun to bring them in, instead of ignoring it like the game does. I mean, he actively disapproves if you retake the Castle while he's with you.
> 
> Btw, Deacon's concern about her not resting is totally legitimate. Sol has been moving nonstop since Kellogg and it really is wearing her down. Everyone is tired and upset and!! Well, you saw what happened--
> 
> I hope Deacon stills feels in character? I just really, really don't want to reduce him to 'funny dude who makes puns and is chill 100% of the time' instead of 'an extremely complex man with very real issues and trauma, who uses humor to reflect, deflect, and redirect, and to hide what he's really feeling' plus, no one can be calm all the time!
> 
> One last note: PRESTON IS A SWEET ANGEL WHO DESERVES EVERYTHING that is all c:


	14. A Royal Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sol had always been good at protecting others. Herself, though? Well, that was a different story.

      Preston had left the next morning with his men, and he would pick up a few more along the way. He hadn’t been happy Deacon was gone, not wanting her to travel alone. It wasn’t as though Deacon were the only person she traveled with, but it was strange to not have him around. There was no one humming terrible showtunes that she would end up singing the words to, and no one who would use her rifle for her if her arm was aching. She _hated_ how much she missed him, how much she thought about him. It was two days before she left Sanctuary herself.

      Sol had decided to leave Dogmeat behind in Sanctuary. He hadn’t wanted to leave without Deacon, having gotten used to it being the three of them, and she figured he’d be safer there. Of course, she knew it would be stupid to go any further than Goodneighbor without any help. She knew just the man, however, and he was probably eager to stop lounging around the Third Rail. Picking up MacCready, and the ungodly amount of super mutants between them and the Castle, had been the easy part.

      “How much farther is this place?”

      “We should be able to see it once we get out of all this debris,” Sol answered, kicking down a panel of rusted chain link fencing, “But be on the lookout for people more than the fort. Preston and his team are scouting the area somewhere around here.”

      “I’m not usually one to question caps,” He started, resting his gun against his chest, “But why’d you hire me? Every time you’re in the Rail, you’ve got that as—uh, that _jerk_ , Deacon with you.” Sol tensed up a little, not much wanting to talk about Deacon. Their fight was still fresh in her mind, and every time she thought of him seeing those memories, watching her beg and sob, she felt nauseated.

      “We… Had a disagreement. That’s all you need to know, MacCready.” Sol crawled through the missing piece of fence, dusting off her pants when she reached the other side, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He frowned a little at her, not at all satisfied with her answer, “Look, it wasn’t a pretty conversation, okay? I’d like to forget it ever happened.” Maybe she could forget ever meeting Deacon.

      “Alright, alright, jeez, don’t get your panties in a twist.” He rolled his eyes, crawling through the fence after her, “Next time you see him though, tell him I’m a better shot than he is,” MacCready looked smug, “Not only is it the truth, it’ll pi—ah, make him angry. Win/win, right?” Sol laughed, shaking her head.

      “Let’s just find the Minutemen, yeah?”

      It was only a half-hour later that she found Preston and five other Minutemen inside of the half-crumbled diner across the way from the Castle. Despite Preston insisting he was no leader, she could see the potential in him. He was kind, and cared about the people was leading or protecting. Taking the Castle had been his idea, but they were calling _her_ General. It felt… Wrong? How many names had the Wasteland given her? Sol, Bullseye, General—none of them felt like _her_ , and yet she couldn’t separate them from herself.

      They’d been tossing tactics and ideas back and forth, trying to decide the best way to assault the Castle. There were a dozen nests inside, with at least as many Mirelurks. None of them were large enough to be the monster from the story, and she could only hope that meant it was gone. It probably wasn’t, but she could hope.

      “Set up a firing line, and I’ll drawn them out.” Both Preston and MacCready threw her looks, one of concern and the other of disbelief, “Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s the best plan.” Sol laid her hand on her hip, “It’s suicide if we go in guns blazing, but if we can bottleneck them…”

      “It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel,” MacCready interjected, going over his sniper rifle in a way she’d seen Deacon go over his own rifle, “I’ll get up on the roof and aim for the faces. Hope you like Mirelurk, we’ll be eating it for a while,” His nose wrinkled up as he looked for some way to shimmy up the rubble to the roof.

      “Alright, the rest of you are with Preston then.” There was a flurry of agreements and the clicking of energy cells being slid into their muskets, “Make sure you’re at a good distance, some of them can spit acid. It’s not pleasant, believe me.” The first time she saw one, it spat acid all over her right calf and she was limping for days. Sometimes, when she caught a glimpse of herself, she couldn’t believe it was really her. There were a hundred scars on her body, a thousand tiny stories of strength and survival etched into her skin.

      “We’ll get ourselves set up. Don’t draw them out until we’re in position.” He cranked his musket twice, “And be careful, General,” His voice was full of worry, “Don’t get yourself trapped in there. I don’t think—Well, just be careful.”

       Sol grinned, “Don’t worry, I fight Deathclaws for fun, remember?” She nodded at him, “Good luck, Preston.” He smiled back and then gestured for the Minutemen to follow him into position. She went the opposite direction, looking for another collapsed wall to scramble up. If she could get up on the walls, without letting them know where she was, it would let her get a better idea of what they were dealing with.

      She ended up circling around until she found the broken back wall and poked her head over it. There were a few Mirelurks meandering around the area, but they were hiding for the most part. Dozens and dozens of shiny, yellowed eggs were nestled in squishy, wet mounds of dirt and slime. Sol found a way up after several tries, and more than one hard landings on her behind. Trying to climb was difficult when one of her hands would, at random, suddenly be unable to grasp anything. She would lose her grip, and go tumbling down. Determination is a hell of a thing, though, and she refused to be beaten by a wall.

      Crouched, she shuffled across the long wall, looking for any other weaknesses that could be exploited during the battle. The half-empty belt of frag grenades draped across her hips weighed heavily on her. If she was going to use them, she would have to use them before anyone else entered the fort. It would be too dangerous otherwise.

      Sol’s head snapped to the left, swearing she’d caught the glint of a sniper’s scope. Only, it was impossible. MacCready was in front of her, she could see him on top of the diner, far from the shining glass. Was she being watched by someone? Great, just what she needed, _another_ person tailing her. Deacon always did say she was just waiting to take a bullet, running right out in the open like she did.

      Unnerved by the thought of being tracked by a sniper, Sol tried to crouch lower to the ground. All she accomplished was nearly giving herself a charlie horse, and that would have given away her position. By the time she reached the corner of the wall, she could see the entire battlefield. Preston and the Minutemen were on one side of the wall while the Mirelurks waited on the other side. MacCready spotted her from his position on the roof and he nodded once before looking back into his scope.

      “Now or never I guess…” Sol started, reaching for the first grenade. At least Deacon wasn’t here to lecture her about taking risks. The grenade clicked when she pulled the pin, and she lobbed it toward a nest to the right, flanked by two Mirelurks. Before the first one went off, she was throwing the second closer to the middle, and then a third was thrown toward the back of the fort as the first went off. The first explosion signaled that her time unnoticed was over, and she needed to draw them out further. The second and third rocked the fort, only making them angrier.

      “Hey! Over here you giant, mutated assholes! Yeah, c’mon,” They _clicked_ and _clacked_ , a sound like squealing and sizzling water echoing off the walls. One of them started to crawl up the same wall of debris she’d struggled to climb, and she found herself searching for an escape route. There were stairs down into the fort, but there was no telling what was waiting for her in that dark tunnel. She could try to climb back down the crumbled wall—The mirelurk was on the wall with her, sprinting for her, “ _Shit!_ ” That left…

      Sol threw herself off the fort wall, trying to roll when she hit the ground like she’d seen people do. Unfortunately, she only half succeeded, only barely managing not to hurt herself. She gasped sharply when she landed on the ground, the wind knocked out of her. Despite desperately trying to breathe in, her chest wouldn’t cooperate and she was left feeling suffocated. Her fingers dug into the soft earth as she tried to clutch at something, anything, to keep her grounded. The sky spun for a moment, but the constant sound of clicking forced her to move.

      She drug in a shaky, ragged breath and stumbled to her feet, knowing the Mirelurks couldn’t be far behind her. Sol ran towards where she’d last seen Preston, praying the Minutemen were ready for what she was about to unleash upon them. As soon as she reached the edge of the wall, she spotted them and then spotted the Mirelurks shambling out of the fort toward them, “Open fire!” She cried, right hand cupped around her mouth.

      Preston swung his arm down and they all fired in unison, red bolts of energy crashing into the armored shells of the creatures. A few stumbled backward as they cranked their muskets again. Preston fired at one who was charging while the others reloaded, knocking to the ground. It didn’t get back up.

      The rest of the mirelurks clamored out of the fort, but their firing line stayed strong and MacCready picked off stragglers from his place on the roof. Occasionally, she could have sworn she heard two gunshots when MacCready would fire. Once she’d reached the firing line, she joined in with them, wincing every time she used Kellogg’s pistol on the Mirelurks. There wasn’t a day that went by she didn’t regret keeping the gun, but something inside of her wouldn’t let her destroy it. Maybe, in some sick way, she’d taken it as a trophy. The recoil hurt her arm, and the sound grated on her already frayed nerves, but it left a gaping hole behind in whatever it shot.

_Like Nate—_

      She cut that thought off before it could begin. There as a job to be done and she couldn’t be distracted from it. The last of the Mirelurks crumpled to the ground, and she heard Preston say something about destroying the eggs. Sometimes the eggs would crack and the fluid inside would seep out, and sometimes a hatching would vault out and attack out whoever was breaking the eggs. She wasn’t sure how long they spent clearing out the eggs, but her boots were caked with the evidence.

      “Hey! I think that’s the last of them, Pres— _Oh my God!_ ” From her place on the wall, standing above the others, she watched the water rumble and shift in horror. From the depths rose a nightmare, enormous and _furious_. Someone screamed about a ‘Queen’ and she found herself on her ass when the creature slammed one half of her legs on the crumbled fort wall and drug herself from the deep.

       “Inside the walls! Go, go!” Preston was trying to usher people inside, “General!” His head snapped toward her and she’d never seen him more terrified, and she’d seen him desperately trying to save the settlers in the museum. The Queen roared and rushed into the courtyard. Or, as fast as a ten ton monster could rush somewhere.

      “Preston, go! Don’t worry about me, get inside!” Sol yelled, managing to drag herself up by clinging to one of the metal railings of the stairs near her.

      He shook his head several times, taking cover under the overhang, “No one gets left behind, General! Not even you!” The creature screamed and more Mirelurks started to crawl up from the water, intent on entering the fort with their mother. Taking his chance while the Queen’s back was turned to him, Preston sprinted up the stairs and immediately started trying to usher her down, “We don’t have much time—Oh no,”

      The Queen was looking at them, claws raised high. Sol looked at Preston with wide eyes, “Do you trust me?” There was a long moment where he stared at her, but he nodded nonetheless, “If I die, tell Dogmeat I love him.” She offered him one last look, “ _Run._ ” With that, she ran down the stairs, leaving a very confused second-in-command behind, “Hey, ugly, follow me!” She shot the Queen, twice, trying to get her attention. It didn’t do much damage, but it was irritating enough to take her focus off of Preston. The few mirelurks that had made it in the fort started after her instantly.

      Her plan was insane. So much so, it just might work. Sol ran, she ran until her lungs ached and every limb burned. She was leading them back toward the dinner, and the half-dozen or so trucks and cars that were huddled together outside of it. MacCready, who had been watching the scene from afar, took notice of her plan. He started taking shots at the Mirelurks chasing her, and landed a few on the Queen to keep her moving.

      Sol waved her hand frantically, “MacCready, time to split! Things are about to get messy!” He needed no more warning and was moving down the debris in leaps and bounds. For a moment, he hesitated and look back toward her. Sol shook her head, “Find cover!” He vanished into some kind of playground across the street from the diner, and she lost track of him after that.

      The Queen screeched angrily from behind her and Sol crawled on top of one of the largest trucks, barely making it up, “Let’s go, your Majesty!” She screamed at her, raising her right hand up high. In it was her last grenade, the pin already pulled. She had _one_ chance, and needed to wait for the right moment, but each second ticked by painfully and she knew her time was running out. The Queen was close enough that Sol could smell her, like brine and ocean water. Just as she dropped the grenade, letting it slip through a hole into the truck’s engine, the Queen swiped her massive claw at her.

      Sol screamed when the blunt side of the claw connected with her right side, throwing her like a rag doll away from the cars. Something, somewhere, _snapped_. She barely registered hitting the water, sinking into the deep with a great splash. The grenade went off. The truck followed it in a burst of fire, and it took the rest of the cars with it. There was a terrible roar as the Queen died in an explosive display, crashing atop the fiery debris, but she barely heard it, sound muffled by the water around her head.

      Sol struggled to reach the surface, left arm useless in her attempt to claw upwards. With every second that passed, her lungs burned more and more. At any moment she was sure they were going to burst. When she broke the surface, sputtering as she coughed up seawater, the exhaustion of the past week hit her all at once. She was _so_ tired, but she had to make it to shore. The water was too deep here for her to stand, and she kept bobbing down, barely keeping her chin above water. It was a constant struggle to keep moving, the waves pulling her back every once in a while, and she was _sure_ something had brushed her leg.

      After what seemed like an eternity, her feet made contact with a sandbar and she started running. Or she tried to run, anyway. The water fought against her, making each step smaller, shorter, and more unsteady than she would have liked. More than once she was forced back into the water, falling backward or being knocked to either side. The waves were harsh and unforgiving, lashing at her with cold water and sharp debris floating in it.

      When she finally reached dry land, Sol collapsed on the beach in a heap of aching, freezing limbs and drenched clothing. She was already shaking by the time the first sea breeze rolled over her, numbing her fingers, toes, and face. As much as she wanted to move, she couldn’t. No amount of willpower would make her legs move, and she couldn’t drag herself out of the waves that crashed against the sand. On the subject of sand, it was all over her. It stuck to every wet place of her, and that was everywhere.

      The Queen was dead, the fort was empty, and she was _exhausted_. There was pain, she knew there was, but she was so cold it felt like pressure instead of pain. It was centered on her right ribs, and she was sure they’d been cracked if not broken outright. Maybe, she could rest, just for a moment. Gather her bearings, or something like that. Sol’s eyelids fluttered as she struggled to keep them open, cheek pressed into the sand.

      “Maybe… Just… Just a _few_ minutes…” Whatever strength had kept her going for so long had drained out of her, and Sol’s eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sol has the worst luck ever, like seriously! Ingame, I keep her luck at one or two because I use her points in other places, but I find it fits her, so! Also, I can't even tell you the number of times I thought, 'I miss Deacon' while writing this chapter lmao 
> 
> I got the idea for killing the Mirelurk Queen this way when I happened to take a trip to the Castle and noticed all the oil and the truck outside of the diner. I mean, desperate times calls for desperate measures, right? I'm going to start bringing in the other companions a little bit more now that this is getting further along the plot, so expect more of them~
> 
> Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always welcome! Hope everyone is doing well and having a good New Year C:


	15. Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions speak louder than words, and they're speaking pretty damn loud.

      Sol woke slowly. Her limbs felt heavy, like an iron blanket had been thrown over her, but she felt no pain. Warmth coursed through her, and she numbly realized someone had given her Med-X. Her mouth was dry and she felt like her eyes hadn’t opened in days. They were hard to keep open, though she blamed the drowsiness on the drug more than any wounds she might have received.

      She was in the fort, somewhere, in a bed pushed against the back wall of the room. Above her head was a blue flag, and a long table with matching chairs were in front of her bed. There was a curio cabinet to her left, and a small table beside that. Her head was in a fog, but she recognized it as the officer’s quarters. If it had been the barracks, there would have been more beds and more people. They used to give tours of the fort, before the war.

      The more she woke, the more she took in her surroundings. The walls and floor was stone, swept but already scattered with dirt again. The lighting was dim, and a large pile of crumbled stone blocked some sort of archway by the door. She was propped up just a little, a few pillows behind her back and one behind her head. Sol blinked, hard, a couple of times when the hazy film over her vision didn’t vanish right away.

      Trying to move had been a mistake. Sol whined, and her dry throat caused a coughing fit. She gasped, clutching at her right side as intense pain shot through her entire chest, “ _Fuck,_ ” A moment later, she took in her own appearance. There were bandages up and down both arms, and her brace was missing. Sol was dressed in someone else’s clothes, and every time she breathed, the pressure would flare up again.

      Sol flinched when she remembered being tossed into the ocean by the Mirelurk Queen. Her fingers gently probed her right side, and it didn’t take long for her to press somewhere that had her hissing like an angry housecat, “ _Ngh_ … Definitely broken,” It wasn’t the first time she’d broken her ribs, though it had been the other side and she’d only broken one. Her college years had been wild, and that bar fight had been _unavoidable_.

      She couldn’t be sure what time of day it was, there were no windows in the fort, and she was too far from any of the archways to get a glimpse outside. Risking more pain, she adjusted herself into a better sitting position. Taking slow, deep breaths, she tried to control the flow of pain, but it was a fruitless endeavor. The deep breaths themselves only made her chest tighter, and she sagged against the pillows when she was in a position she liked.

      It might have been painful, but she could watch the door warily this way. Sol pulled back the collar of her t-shirt and winced when she saw a mottling of red, deep purple, and black covering her right side. Some parts were lighter than others, and a spot down near her hip was starting to turn a sickly green color. Her brows furrowed. How long had she been out that the bruises were healing? Or maybe she should ask them how many stimpaks they’d shoved in her to keep her breathing. Those things were little miracles in a syringe, but she only hoped she wouldn’t need more of them.

      The white of the bandages were stark against her dark skin, and she kept staring at them. Her right arm didn’t hurt enough for her to be worried about what was underneath them, and her left always hurt, so that was no help. A twinge of pain struck her and her face scrunched up. The chems were starting to wear off. The pain was the downside, but she could feel her legs and she didn’t feel like human jello anymore.

      Sol swallowed thickly and pulled back the covers. There was no point in waiting around, she needed to know what was going on. She narrowed her eyes, determined to climb out of the bed, despite the protests of just about every part of her body. Her bare feet touched the cold floor and she flinched, “It just had to be cold, didn’t it? I _hate_ the cold…” Sol mumbled to herself. Before she could think better of it, she yanked a blanket off the bed and, tried, to drape it over herself.

      It was difficult, and if anyone walked in she likely would have died of embarrassment on the spot. She still had trouble adjusting to having a disability, and would catch herself thinking horrible things about herself. It wasn’t fair, to herself or to the many others in the wastes she’d seen living with what the Commonwealth had thrown at them. They were survivors, and so was she. Nothing about them, or her, was any less than anyone else. She just had to do things a little differently. 

      Once the blanket was securely around her shoulders, her right hand clasping the two ends closed over her chest, she started taking slow steps toward the door. There were raised voices, though they were far enough she couldn’t make out who was yelling or about what. Sol braced herself on the door as she passed it, trying to take any support where she could. Though each step was easier, she felt like she might topple at any moment.

      Sol risked a glance down the hallway as she leaned on the door, and it was like the rug had been pulled out from under her. He was dressed in a Minuteman uniform, hat and all, but he couldn’t fool her. Maybe the others had thought he was one of them, but she knew better. He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off. Deacon hadn’t seen her yet and, for a moment, she was tempted to hide herself back in the room. The churning sea of emotion in her chest threatened to drown her, anger and longing in equal parts aimed at him. Sol wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch him in his _stupid_ face or kiss him.

      She’d waited too long, and his head turned toward the doorway. He did a double-take at her appearance and she realized he hadn’t been expecting her to crawl out of the room. Something she couldn’t identify rose up. He’d been watching the room? For how long? Sol realized he’d been waiting for her, to wake up or… She didn’t much want to think about what else he could have been waiting for.

      Deacon looked like he hadn’t slept in days, not that he slept much as it was, and she wondered how long he’d been pretending to be a Minuteman to stay in the Castle. A second later, once he’d recovered from the shock of seeing her so suddenly, he’d pulled himself from the wall and was walking toward her. Sol was still furious at him, and she cursed the way her heart flipped when he looked at her with _such_ concern.

      “Howdy, General.” He drawled, laying his hands on his hips and frowning at her, “Nice of you to return to the land of the living.” His eyes roved over her, hidden beneath those glasses, and he made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat, “You look like shit.”

      Sol snorted, unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes, “Oh, gee, thanks, _Cowboy_ ,” She huffed, finding the hat completely ridiculous on him, “I mean, I totally need to hear that right now,” Her tone was sarcastic and biting, “Why are you even here, Deacon? I told you—”

      “I honestly, _honestly_ , don’t care what you told me.” Deacon interrupted, waving one of his hands around, “I don’t even care if you’re still pissed at me,” He added on, barely missing a beat and ignoring her own frown, “But I’m getting you to a doctor. A _real_ one.”

      Despite wanting to argue with him, the pain that accompanied each breath was more than enough to emphasize her need to see a doctor. Preston, though a good man and a dedicated protector, was no doctor. Though she suspected he did a lot of patching up on his fellow Minutemen, and she recognized his handiwork on herself. The bandages on her arms were tied in the same way he’d tied the bandages in Concord, and again in Sanctuary.

      “We’re in the middle of nowhere! The nearest doctor is—” Sol’s nose wrinkled up as she realized where he planned on taking her and Deacon laughed, a sound she wouldn’t admit she missed, “Can’t you just leave me here? Carrington is going to tell Dez, and then we’ll never hear the end of it.” She shook her head, “Besides, I don’t know where any of my stuff is, and I can’t just leave without letting someone know,”

      If she was being honest with herself, she was desperately looking for an excuse not to follow him right out of the Castle and back to HQ. It was ridiculous how much she’d missed him and his annoying habits. He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders, “Taken care of. Freedom Boy had it all in one place, and I just,” He shrugged, lips quirked upward, “Helped myself, you know? I’ve got it stashed.”

      Sol narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him, “Freedom Boy? _Really_? And what about telling someone we’re leaving?” Her grip on the blanket loosened, letting it hang off her shoulders, “How do you think Preston will react when he walks in that room and I’m just gone?” She shook her head, not wanting to make him worry any more than he already had.  

      “C’mon, I said it was taken care of. Don’t you trust me?” She tried to ignore the hope in his voice. There was a tense moment of silence. Did she trust him? He had helped himself to her memories, her mourning, though she doubted he knew what would happen when he started watching. Sol looked away from him, chewing on the inside of her cheek. He’d been outside of the Den too, maybe waiting for her now that she thought about it. But he’d also comforted her, in his own way.

      Sol looked back at him, thinking herself a fool, “I do,” She narrowed her eyes, “But I don’t like the sound of ‘taken care of’. Please don’t tell me you left a strongly worded letter.”

      Deacon laughed, snorting a little, “I mean, it’s not _strongly_ worded, but I left a note. A little one.” He shrugged, and she wasn’t sure if she liked the smirk that twitched at the corners of his lips, “By the way, MacCready is _so_ not a better shot than I am. Who does he think he’s talking about?” Deacon shook his head, like he was disappointed, “Kids these days.”

      Sol’s face twisted in surprise and disbelief, “There’s no way—You were following us?” Honestly, she shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d followed her for almost two weeks before she truly met him in the old catacombs in the church. Suddenly, she remembered the glinting of a second scope and everything clicked into place, “… You never left.”

      Deacon fidgeted with his hands, “I did, actually, but I couldn’t—” He shook his head, as if arguing with himself, “I knew you didn’t want to see me, after what happened in Sanctuary,” The fight had been as much her fault as his. She had let the pain get the best of her, and she had taken it out on him. They had both been upset and exhausted, and it was the perfect recipe for disaster. There was something _raw_ in his voice, and it made her heart clench, "You've been out for days, and I thought..." He sighed again, rubbing under his eyes, “Look, I’m not good at this whole ‘being friends’ thing, but I _care_ , Sol, and I’ll be damned if I let you die on my watch.” Conflict raged on his face, and his hands moved ceaselessly.

      Maybe it was the Med-X still in her system, or she’d hit her head after being knocked into the water, but Sol couldn’t stop herself. Her right hand dropped the blanket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and she cupped his jaw, “Maybe,” She drew his face a little closer, shock coloring his features, “I don’t want to be friends,” It felt like her heart was going to burst from her chest, pounding against her aching ribs. Sol pulled him down and stood on her tip-toes at the same time, pressing their lips together softly.

      It was… She couldn’t describe it. Kissing Deacon was like feeling the sun on her skin for the first time in decades. He was as surprised as she was that she was kissing him, and she feared, for one horrorstruck moment, that she had made a mistake. This would _ruin_ them, how could she have done _this_ —He was kissing her back, his fingers grasping at her hips. Sol felt his lips curl against hers.

      She gasped into the kiss when he tugged her closer, and she moved her hand from his jaw to around his neck. Sol couldn’t think, only feel, and everything felt _right_. His mouth was warm, inviting, and she would have liked nothing more than to explore it further. Her nails drug down the back of his neck gently, and she felt him shiver, his grip on her tightening. Sol laughed breathlessly, breaking the kiss.

      Deacon seemed a little dazed, though he quickly recovered. His thumbs drew circles on the tops of her hips as he contemplated her, “Somethin’ funny, Boss?” She never knew what he was thinking, and she desperately wished she could read his mind. Her heart was racing now, fully realizing what she’d done. She’d kissed Deacon, and she feared what that would mean for them once they left this hallway and thought on what had happened.

      “Nothing, it’s just—” There were footsteps coming from the left side of the hallway and they both snapped their head towards the sound, looking for the source, “Ten caps says it’s Preston coming to check on me.”

      Deacon made a face, “Probably. It’s been two hours since his last patrol around, he’s due for another,” Sol raised a brow at him, “What? Hey, it takes effort to keep this disguise up. He or the Kid see me, and my cover’s blown.” They both realized they were still clinging to each other, and broke apart a little reluctantly. His fingers lingered for a moment more before he pulled away completely. A gust of cool, ocean air pushed into the fort and she flinched, remembering she was barefoot and clad only in a large t-shirt and someone’s, rather large, sweats. Without his body heat, she was cold again.

      “If we’re leaving,” The footsteps grew louder, “Now would be good.” She warned, not sure how well Preston would react to Deacon impersonating a Minuteman. He adjusted his hat down over his eyes, shadowing his face and hopefully obscuring him from recognition, “Let’s hurry, I don’t know far I’ll be able to go before—” Sol squeezed her eyes shut as pain bloomed on her side again, “ _Fuck_ ,” She hissed, “Yeah, _that._ ” If she’d thought the Med-X had worn off before, she was sure it had worn off now.

      Deacon’s lips twisted, “We’re _definitely_ going to see Carrington. Like right now.” He bent down to pick up her blanket and, almost tenderly, wrapped it around her shoulders, “There’s a storm brewing outside, you’re going to need this.” Sol nodded and they disappeared down the right hallway.

      Deacon hadn’t been lying when he said there was a storm brewing. The sky was mixed black and gray, with huge, angry clouds heavy with water. The wind chill bit at any exposed skin, and whipped her loose hair around. It was hanging over her chest now in wild, springy curls and she thought about chopping it all off more than once as it kept flying in her mouth and blinding her. They snatched her things from his hiding place, and he helped her put on and lace her boots. It was impossible to bend with the way her ribs screamed at just breathing.

      By the time they reached the outskirts of Boston’s ruins, it had started to rain. It was light at first, but it was pouring only minutes later. At some point, Deacon’s hat was placed on her head, though it didn’t much help keep her dry. Thunder roared, shaking loose debris, and flashes of lightning reflected off every metal or glass surface around them. While the storm was more than a little unpleasant to be in, the upside was that nothing else in the ruins wanted to deal with the rain either.

      More than once they had to stop, huddled under meager shelter, while she gasped and writhed in pain. The more she walked, the worse the pain became and she was starting to regret leaving the Castle. Despite the cold, she sweat nearly the whole way, barely able to keep up with Deacon. Actually, she hadn’t been able to, and Deacon had to slow his pace. There was worry creasing his face every time he looked at her, and finally reaching the Old North Church was a relief for them both.

      Once she was nestled on one of the cots in HQ, Carrington having lectured her heavily about taking better care of herself, she was alone with her thoughts. Her ribs, four of them, had been broken and one had been cracked. The doctor had been very surprised she was even walking when he’d inspected her side, prodding at the ugly bruising and injecting her with stimpaks and Med-X. She felt warm and a little fuzzy, but she was _safe_.

      It would be six weeks before they were healed, but everyone, herself included, knew that she wouldn’t be able to rest for that long. Too many things needed to be done, people needed saving, and she had a scientist to track down. But she would have a few weeks, at least.

      Sol looked around HQ from her spot in the back, mostly hidden behind one of the sarcophagi. Glory was talking to Tinker, who had taken her brace (it had been in her things too. Deacon was thorough, if nothing else), insisting on ‘upgrading’ it, though she wasn’t sure what that meant. Deacon looked like he was arguing with Dez, and he was already changed out of the Minuteman uniform. He was frustrated, she could tell from the way he waved his hands around his head when he spoke.

      For once, she was alone. Left with her own thoughts, her mind wandered to their kiss in the Castle. Sol was conflicted. On one hand, she had wanted nothing more than to kiss Deacon until she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to _live_ again. On the other hand… The wedding ring on her finger weighed heavily and guilt churned in her stomach. Her husband—She closed her eyes, stopping that thought. What her husband would have thought didn’t matter anymore. Nate was dead, and though she missed him terribly, she couldn’t let him be an anchor. He wouldn’t have wanted that.

      Sol ran her thumb gently over the shiny gold ring, thinking about the people she’d lost and, as her gaze turned toward Deacon, the people she’d gained. As much as she loved Nate, as much as she would _always_ love him, he was gone. And he would want her to be happy. She would want _him_ to be happy.

      Her focus returned to the ring and, as if it would bite her when she touched it, carefully pulled it off with shaking hands. A lump rose in her throat as she stared at it, and swallowing did nothing to force the hurt away, “Into Forever, Unafraid.” She whispered, reading the words he’d etched into her ring with tears in her eyes. Sol closed her hand around the ring and held it over her heart.

      It was time to let him go. Sol slipped the ring into her pocket, reminding herself to put it on the chain with Nate’s ring. When she put Nate to rest after she found Shaun, they would rest with him. Her eyes moved to scan the room again, but her gaze was caught by Deacon’s. He was watching her, as usual, but there was a strange expression on his face. The moment she’d met him, she knew nothing would be the same.

      Sol beckoned him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im!!! I literally cry every time you guys comment, and I'm just so flattered by the response this fic has gotten! I'm so glad I can make you guys happy at the same time as having fun writing these emotional nerds! I love y'all, seriously C:
> 
> Okay! This chapter gave me a lot of feelings tbh, and this slow burn is starting to catch fire (Ha! I'm funny guys). First kiss time! She thought she'd pushed him away, and he thought she was going to die, can you blame them? If you're wondering why he calls MacCready 'Kid' it's because Mac is like twenty and I place Deacon late-forties, closer to 50 than 40! (They'll probably talk about what happened next chapter~)
> 
> I got very emotional about her letting Nate go, I'll admit it, I got very attached to her hubby when I designed them in the cc. If you guys want to see screenshots of her playthrough, let me know and I can link to my tumblr! I take a million shots of their adventures 
> 
> On a side note, I go back to college on Monday and updates might slow down a little, but they won't stop! You couldn't keep me from writing this fic, I'm too invested.


	16. Courser Confirmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sol doesn't like to think. It always leads to the worst of places.

      “God, it’s _so_ nice to take this stupid helmet off,” Sol gulped in the, somewhat, fresh air of the Commonwealth, glad to be free of the fishbowl she was forced to wear in the Glowing Sea. It had only been three weeks since Deacon had all but stolen her from the Castle, though she couldn’t much blame him. If he had been hurt, she would have torn apart Hell itself to help him. It was all she could wait before someone, inevitably, needed help. It had been Randolph Safehouse, and she wasn’t going to let her ribs stop her from helping them get synths out.

      Deacon had _insisted_ on coming with her.

      They’d picked up the dead drop, cleared out the route, and headed west toward the Glowing Sea. Despite her wounds, both of them knew finding Virgil was the next step in taking down the Institute, and finding Shaun. Deacon had complained the whole way through the Sea, but had been nearly silent on the trip out. Their conversation with Virgil had been enlightening, but she left his cave with more questions than she had answers.

      “You can say that again,” He hadn’t been happy when she’d told him that was where they were going, but she didn’t bother asking if he wanted to go back to HQ. Sol knew the answer would be a firm ‘no’. There had been scarcely a moment he hadn’t been at her side since Carrington had gone over her. They were still in the orange suits, sans helmets, “I’ll admit, I thought you being a hoarder when you grabbed these suits off the table in the Switchboard.”

      Sol looked smug, crossing her arms, “Excuse me, what was that? Is that Deacon, admitting he was wrong?” Deacon rolled his eyes, patting down the front of his suit for his sunglasses, being unable to wear them in suit. Not that he hadn’t tried, but after walking into the second tree, Sol had made him take them off. It was nice to see his eyes.

      “No,” His lips quirked into a smirk, “Just saying it’s a good thing your junk obsession did something other than weigh us down an extra fifty pounds.” Sol puffed out her cheeks, and then stuck her tongue out at him.

      “You’re just jealous _you_ didn’t think of it.” She looked down at her own suit, tugging at the orange material with distain, “I swear, next time I’m walking in naked. There’ll be less chafing, and maybe I’ll get super powers.” When she looked back up, his sunglasses were back on and he was trying to find the zipper through all the equipment strapped to the suit. Sol snorted, “Come over here already, you’re hopeless,” She teased, laughing as he fiddled with the center strap the whole way toward her.

      “S’not my fault you have to be a genius to get out of this thing,” The fingers on her right hand made quick work of the straps and snaps, pulling back or undoing the ones in her way. “I’m down for getting super powers. I call dibs on invisibility though. I’d never have to pop a stealth-boy again!” He tilted his head down, looking behind her, “Hey, what’s that?”

      She lifted her head, looking up at him, “Wha—” He leaned down, pressing his lips against hers for a quick moment. It had been happening more often, and neither of them were doing anything to stop whatever had sprung up between them in that narrow, cold hallway. Her face heated, and she could feel the flush spreading down her neck and chest. It was over before she could respond.

      “Oh, wait, it was nothing.” He smirked, snorting when Sol narrowed her eyes at him, “You’re not _nearly_ as intimidating as you think.”

       Sol grumbled under her breath, “That’s not going to work next time.” It would, it had the previous times. They never kissed for more than a few seconds, but their fingers clung to each other desperately, exposing what their owner’s wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , say. He laughed at her, holding steady one of the straps she was struggling with, “Thanks,” She hummed, working past the buckle. A moment later, she found the zipper and pulled it down a few inches, “There we go!”

      They were figuring out their next move in an old, empty house not far from the edge of the Glowing Sea. There were a few holes in the ceiling, and the back door didn’t shut, but it was secure enough for a few hours rest. Sol had been making an effort to sleep more, even if she was wracked by nightmares every time she closed her eyes. It was a cold comfort knowing she wasn’t the only one. Though he never said anything, she knew. Deacon was haunted by his own nightmares almost every time he slept.

      “We stopping for the day?” He asked, pulling down the zipper the rest of the way. Deacon shrugged the jumpsuit off his shoulders and let the heavy material bunch up at his hips, “If we are, we should block the door. It’s too easy for something to sneak up on us in here.”

      She might have called him paranoid if he wasn’t completely right. Deacon, above all else, knew how to survive, and she found taking his advice was a good idea, “I don’t know. We’ll probably stop for a few hours, maybe catch a nap,” Sol shrugged, tugging at her own suit now, letting the equipment fall off the suit before she took it off, “But I like to travel at night, and we need to hit the C.I.T building.”

      Deacon tensed a little, frowning, “So we’re really doing this? Going after a Courser, I mean.” He shook his head, “You remember what I said at Switchboard, right?” The more she thought on the place, the more she realized that Deacon had walked back into the den of his nightmares, and had said nothing. ‘Memories’ had been an understatement.

      “Full of ‘fuck up your day’ tech, and to run. Not exactly an option anymore.” She sighed, tugging the zipper down halfway, “I _have_ to, Deacon. Shaun’s in there, and I’m bringing my boy home.” There was determination in her voice, and she nodded, as though that would make it true, “Do we _really_ know anything about them though?”

      “I'm not trying to stop you, but Coursers aren't like the others synths we've fought," Deacon shook his head worriedly, "They’re Gen-3’s, human-looking, but they’re different.” He was digging through one of their bags, and produced one of his many disguises, “Faster and stronger than any human could ever hope to be, and they usually bring a pack of gen-1’s and 2’s wherever they go.” Their backs were turned toward each other as they tugged themselves out of the orange suits.

      Sol had become an expert at dressing herself one-handed, though she was glad her left hand was feeling well enough today that she didn’t need to, “We tangled with Kellogg easily enough, and Virgil said they were comparable.”

      “We blew him up, that doesn’t really count as ‘fighting’,” He snorted, pulling a t-shirt over his head, ruffling his wig a little, “Besides, I doubt Virgil has actually seen a Courser in action. I, on the other hand,” Deacon laid a hand on his chest, “Have.” She peeked back at him, frowning when she noticed how stiff he’d gone, leaned over a table. He seemed lost in himself, maybe in memories. She understood the feeling.

      “Maybe we’ll blow them up too,” The joked seemed to break him from his trance. Sol felt a smile curl at her lips, “Or, rather, I’ll make you blow them up. I’m sure we can find another Fat Man.” She laughed when he groaned, grasping at his lower back.

      “I can feel my back killing me already. You’re a terrible person, you know that?” He was fully dressed now, a leather jacket thrown over his shirt. Deacon was a quick changer, but he left his clothes everywhere if they stayed somewhere for more than a day. He would take one shirt off, not liking the way it looked that day, and toss it on the floor or the bed and try on another. She didn’t have enough clothes to have to worry about them getting mixed in with his.

      “I’m well aware,” Sol snorted, turning back to her own pile of clothes. All that was left her brace and flannel to toss over her undershirt. Tinker had taken her brace back at HQ, and had made it his pet project for several days. She’d nearly cried when he handed it back to her. The simple brace had been modified and reinforced. The padded material was thickened with ballistic weave and the sleeve had been extended along her entire arm. There was a bare patch where her elbow would be, but the bottom half of the brace was connected to the top by several adjustable straps. On the round of the shoulder there was a painted metal patch in the shape of a bullseye.

      Sol hadn’t been able to wear it since she’d broken her ribs, the pressure of the chest strap too much for her to handle. Now that they were on the road, her shoulder was screaming without the extra support. She picked it up, frowning a little at the new straps. Tinker meant well, that much was obvious, but she wished he’d used something easier than metal buckles to modify the brace. Though, what else could he have used? Did they still have access to Velcro? She shook her head at the thought.

      She laid the metal buckle of the chest strap in her left palm, and started to work on getting it open. It took her a moment, and she heard Deacon going through a few more bags, collecting things, from behind her, “You think that Radscorpion is edible?”

      She didn’t need to look at his face to see the disgusted expression, his voice gave it away, “Oh, _yeah_ , as long as you wipe off all the venom first.” He paused for a moment, “Well, I hear there’s places they use the venom in the recipe. Adds a _sting_ to the meat.” Deacon started laughing and Sol groaned, throwing an empty can at him. She missed, but he held a hand over his heart dramatically, “You _wound_ me,”

      “I’ll do a lot more than that if you keep making shitty jokes.” She warned, starting to pull on the brace. Her fingers brushed over fresh, raised scars over her shoulder and she paused, frowning at them a little. The entire left side of her chest and shoulder was heavily scarred by the puffy tissue, and her shirt exposed a large section of them. Sol sighed and tugged the sleeve up all the way, letting it rest on her arm without tying it down.

      She tested how it felt, bending and unbending her below several times and moving her shoulder as best she could. The inside of the sleeve was smoother than she remembered, and the edges didn’t rub roughly on the scars, “I’m going to have to thank Tinker again whenever we go back to HQ,” Despite the metal buckles, it was already miles better than the bare bones brace had been.

      “He’s _kind_ of a genius, if you hadn’t noticed,” There was laughter in his tone and she rolled her eyes. When it came to securing the brace, however, she realized there was a problem. The previous strap had been too tattered to save, and Tinker had put another on it. The metal buckle would be a problem when it hung in two pieces on either side of her and she was too sore to twist herself in a way so she could get to them.

      She jumped when she felt fingers brush along the scars on the back of her shoulder, “ _Shit_ —Deacon! Make a little noise, for God’s sake,” He was behind her, hands moving to grab the straps on either side of her, metal _clinking_ softly when he pulled them around her. Maybe it was silly of her, but she couldn’t ignore the way her heart warmed every time he did this, helping her. It wasn’t in her nature to ask for help, but with Deacon, she didn’t have to. He shifted to the side a little and she lifted her right arm.

      Sol held the top of the brace against her arm as he buckled the strap around her chest. It ran just below her collarbones, then under her right arm, and buckled just below her armpit, “Let me know if it’s too tight, yeah?” She took a breath, and while there was pressure, it wasn’t pain, and that was good enough for her. Sol would take her victories where she could.

      “It’s fine. Thank you,” She started but trailed off when his fingers returned to the angry claw marks poking from under the shoulder piece, thumb brushing over the thickest scar. Her heart skipped a beat and a familiar yearning flooded her chest, “… Deacon?” His hand jerked back like he’d been burned and he shook his head several times.

      “What was that, Boss? Back to dinner? Well, if you _insist_.” Her brows furrowed when he scurried away, confused by his reaction. Had she done something wrong? Did the scars bother him? She shrugged on the flannel over the brace, trying to ignore that thought, and stole one of Deacon’s many jackets from the floor. He, apparently, hadn’t liked his first or second choice in clothing. The soft, blue material was warm and it didn’t smell like it’d been in a drawer for two hundred years.

      Deacon had picked up the slab of insect meat again and was slicing it in thick, long strips, mumbling to himself. While his back was turned, she slipped outside and started looking for a good place to set up a fire. She didn’t want it too close to the house, as not to attract animals, but not too far that the food would be cold by the time they returned. There was a small alcove tucked under a hill, a flat cliff hanging over the small opening, not far from the front porch.

      Without his ever-watchful eyes on her, Sol could think clearly about the things that had happened between them. It had been… _Strange_ since the Castle. His hands found their way to her more often, though she was far from unhappy at the development, and they’d stopped sleeping apart. Nothing had happened between them, they slept back to back, simply comforted by the presence of one another. Somehow, it made her nightmares a little easier to battle.

      Deacon had been through just as much as she had, of that she was sure, and whatever laid in his past kept him distanced from her. He was within reach, and yet her fingers could only brush him before he disappeared again. It was frustrating, but she understood more than she first realized. They danced around each other, seeing how far the other would go before they fled.

      It wasn’t too difficult to get a fire going, she had most of the materials already, and the small fire was glowing strongly within a few minutes. It was tiny, barely enough to keep her warm and cook dinner, but she was proud of it.

      The smell of smoke was a familiar one, and it brought her more comfort than she thought it would. Had she really become so accustomed to the smell of fire and destruction? The fire crackled a little when she added another gnarled branch to the pile, and she settled in a few feet from it. She could feel the warmth on her face and through the jacket. It was too large, the sleeves extending past her hands a good three or four inches, but she’d rolled them up.

      The fingers of her right hand moved to undo the bun at the base of her neck, letting her hair fall around her cold face and ears. It had to be late-February by now, and the weather showed it. It didn’t snow anymore, but it grew bitterly cold at night and the wind howled at all hours. She had always hated the cold, even before the war, and their gas bills had been sky-high because she ran it constantly. There was no dial to turn to warm herself anymore, so a fire would have to do.

      Sol held her hands in front of the fire, trying to chase away the numbness that had settled in them, “I was wondering where you’d gone off to,” Deacon said suddenly from a few feet behind her. Though he startled her, she tried not to show it, but she flinched at the sound of his voice and it gave her away, “You’re jumpy as hell today, Sol,” He remarked as he walked toward the fire, a pan full of meat and a large beaker stand they’d found in his hands. There was questioning in his tone. Deacon never asked something directly, only nudging at the information he wanted through other means.

      “It’s not that, I’m just thinking,” Her head hurt from all the thinking she’d done in the past hour. In truth, her greatest worry was what she would find in the Institute. The possibilities were limitless, and her mind had nothing but the worst to provide. Shaun could be dead. The very thought left an ache in her heart so fierce, Sol barely felt her ribs. He was bait, Kellogg had said so himself in his memories, and what did they need him for now that they had her on the hook?

      “Ah, _thinking_ ,” He shook his head, dropping the beaker stand over the small fire, “The places that’ll getcha.” The pan was placed on top of the stand, and left to heat over the fire, “And before you ask, _yes_ , I put oil in the pan.”

      Sol snorted, smiling a little, “You ruined my last pan, Deacon. That poor mirelurk steak never had a chance,” She started laughing when he grumbled, setting himself beside her. It had been a mess, and it she’d been forced to just abandon the pan. The mirelurk had been burned black and ashy into the pan, Deacon having forgotten about it. They made dinner together now, being too easily distracted by their own thoughts alone. Sol had burned as many meals as he had, though she wasn’t likely to admit it. She knew his mind moved a mile a minute, and he was constantly thinking about everything.

      “It’s not my fault! I got distracted,” She snorted again, watching the fire lick at the bottom of the pan, “And I got you a new one. A better one. That’s cast iron, you know, they don’t make ‘em like they used to.” Sol shrugged, tucking her hands into the pockets of the jacket. Deacon frowned a little, “Something on your mind?”

      Sol felt a heaviness settle over her and she frowned as she stared into the fire, “A lot of things. The Courser, the Institute. Shaun.” She brought her knees to her chest, folding her arms over the top of them, “… I’m scared, Deacon,” It wasn’t easy for her to admit, but the churning in her stomach wouldn’t let her rest, “I’m _so_ scared, and I don’t know what to do about it.” Her voice broke though she tried desperately to hide it.

      Deacon’s arm wrapped around her shoulders carefully, and she found herself leaning against him, “We’ll find him, Sol.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of filler, but I wanted to establish a few things after the kiss! Things are still moving very slowly and they're both anxious nerds with lots of hang-ups and worries holding them back. Also, Deacon is /not/ good at flirting or being smooth or dealing with feelings in general. I see so much smooth, suave Deacon, and I'm just like 'pls'. He totally pretends to be though, but the second it's reciprocated, he's already bolted off!
> 
> Let me know if you see typos! My hands were bothering me when I typed this up, so I might have missed some letters in words or put the wrong ones. I tried to get them all, but you kind of gloss over typos in your own writing because you know what's suppose to go there! The chapter kind of jumps around in topics, but that's because Sol is very scattered herself at the moment. (I couldn't help myself with the pun)
> 
> *Consider this, friends: Billy Zane as Deacon


	17. Chipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coursers are a hassle, she decided.

~~~~Sol flinched when a bullet flew past her, only missing her head by a few inches. She couldn’t pull herself from the terminal though. If she did, all her hard work would be for nothing, “Deacon!” She called, looking to her left for him. He was crouched under the window, the end of his rifle poking out a hole in the glass, “If you can keep them from shooting me, I think I can turn the turrets against them!”

      He nodded once, never taking his eyes from his scope, “I’ll see what I can do,” There was a moment of silence and neither of them breathed until Deacon took his shot, the suppressor muffling most of the rifle’s sound, “That makes three, but they have to know where we’re at now,” Sol hummed in agreement, scrolling through the code again.

      A voice blared out of the intercoms, screaming for reinforcements, “Shit, we’ve got company, incoming!” Her heart was racing as her hand flew across the keyboard. All she needed was a little more—She had it! The turrets stopped firing for a moment, turned with a mechanical sound, and started firing at the Gunners starting to charge into the room. Unfortunately, she’d only been able to turn a fraction of the defenses. There were at least a dozen in the building, but they were on separate grids and she would need to hack those too to gain control.

      The old hospitals were eerie, decrepit and haunted. Or, at least, that was how it felt sometimes. Walking through the ruins of the old world was a bit like moving through a graveyard. Somehow, it would let you know it was a place better left undisturbed. Greentech Genetics was no exception, though she didn’t need to worry about the unsettling silence. The Courser left a trail of destruction behind them, blowing things up without care and leaving bodies strewn in pieces everywhere.

      “This is what a Courser does?” She questioned, nudging a legless corpse with her foot, “Overkill, much?” Her nose wrinkled up, and she was struck by the strangeness of the situation. Before the war, the sight of blood would make her squeamish. Now, it was like an old friend, always on her skin and only hair’s breadth from being spilled. Sol could never go back, she knew that, “Which way, you think?”

      Deacon snorted, wiping his hands over a lab coat he’d put on to ‘blend in’, “Overkill is what they do. Coursers leave no survivors, if they can,” There was an edge to his voice, but he covered it with practiced ease, “I dunno,” He started, laughter edging into his tone, “We _might_ want to follow the trail of explosions.” Jokes were the only way they knew to cope, and it was easy enough to pretend she didn’t want to run for her life.

      “Of course, because walking right into the belly of the beast is _totally_ a good idea,” Sol rolled her eyes, laying her right hand on her hip, “At least there’s no gen-1s or 2s,” She felt bad when she had to kill them, they didn’t understand why. It filled her with guilt, but a lot of things did, and it was just one more to add to the pile, “I wonder if we could find an elevator, they still sometimes work in places with internal power sources.”

      Hospitals and medical facilities often had back-up generators and other ways of creating power in case of an outage and they needed to keep systems online for whatever reason. If they could find some way to divert power to the elevators, they could avoid tangling with more Gunners than they needed to. The Gunners were already starting to dislike her, it was only a matter of time before they put a bounty on her head.

      “What other choice do we have? You know me, I’m never a fan of the direct approach,” Neither was she, for the most part, but they had few options and little time, “Hey! Don’t jinx us, now, I don’t want to have to take them down,” Sol laughed a little, glad to break the tension some, “We could try, but do we have time for that? The Courser’s got to be here for a synth, and they’ll be gone as soon as they have them.”

      Sol stiffened, not having realized fully why a Courser would be assaulting a Gunner’s base, “Fuck the elevator then, we’re not letting them take another synth back.” The holotape they’d found in Bedford station weighed heavily in her bag. She hadn’t had the courage to give it to Desdemona yet, but no one had mentioned a Dutchman before, so she could only assume they thought he was dead. He was, but there was more to the story.

_I’m not going back_ , the second voice on the tape cried, and her heart clenched. This time, no one would be going back.

      “Couldn’t agree more, Boss,” Deacon nodded, and then gestured for her to walk forward with his gun, “I’ll let you know if I see any terminals, maybe we can slow them down.”

      They were a floor below the Courser, and they couldn’t seem to catch up. Every time they got close enough to see explosions and a flash of dark clothing, more Gunners would show up and block their path. By the time they could clear the room, the Courser was on the next floor and they were left to wade through the wreckage left in the Synth’s wake. The terminals were few and far between, but they were useful. She could switch lights on and off, giving Deacon an advantage, and turn the turrets on the Gunners.

      There had been a protectron or two she’d activated, but they’d done little more than distract the Gunners while she and Deacon took them out from a distance. The modified brace made it easier to shoot, and it steadied her aim, but it wasn’t a miracle. Pulling the trigger on her rifle even once would doom her to days of aching in her arm.

      It was worth the pain. The recoil wasn’t as bad as it had once been. She’d learned fairly quickly to modify her own weapons (with more than a little help and instruction from Tinker). The rifle was silenced, the stock redesigned to reduce recoil, and a recon scope she’d taken off another rifle was attached to the top.

      They were knelt on the floor beside each other, searching for any stragglers through the scopes, “I think we—” Deacon pulled the trigger of his rifle, and there was a strangled sound from the darkness of the room in front of them.

      “ _Now_ we’ve got them all,” He finished for her, lowering his gun and standing from the floor. Deacon was an exceptional sniper, that much had been easy to pick up on, but he wasn’t fond of heights. It made her smile a little, despite the hellhole they were crawling through at the moment. He was a sniper terrified of heights, but she had seen stranger things on the regular. She would never get used to the giant lizards that wanted to eat her.

      “You’re always saying a sniper is going to blow my head off,” She reactivated the spot lights in the room now that everyone inside was dead, “But I don’t think they’d get a chance. I didn’t even see that last one.” Light flooded the room ahead of them and she had to squint for a moment while her eyes adjusted.

      “Yeah, well, he saw _you_. So my point still stands,” He shrugged, looking over her shoulder at the terminal, “I used to go through terminals, reading the entries from before the war. Had to stop though,” He shook his head, sounding a little sad, “They never… end well.” Sol stopped for a moment, looking down at her hand on the keyboard. Sometimes, she forgot that’s all the old world was to the people of this one. It was stories, fairy tales of a time when the world was green and, somewhat, safe.

      “It feels a little like a story, to be honest,” It was easier to talk about her old life with every day that passed, “I look at the world now, and it’s like the one I lived in wasn’t real.” She sighed, shaking her head, “There’s evidence of it everywhere, but it feels like some distant, hazy dream.”

      Sol could barely remember what it was like to live in that world. There, she never had to fight for a meal or kill someone to survive. His eyes still the haunt her, the first man she’d ever killed. They bore into her, and she would never forget what it was like to be responsible for taking a life. She couldn’t afford to be guilty, but it gnawed away at her in silence.

      “You know it happened, but it doesn’t feel like it,” Deacon provided knowingly, heading toward the stairs. She followed after him, “Yeah, I can understand that,” The second part was quiet, mumbled under his breath, but she couldn’t help agreeing. She would wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air, the heat of the end of the world on her skin still. Every time she dreamed of the cloud, it felt less and less real. How could something _so_ horrible be real?

      It was oddly quiet in the facility all of a sudden and it put them both on edge. Had the Courser found his mark? There were no more explosions and no screams, so she could only hope that meant there were no gunners left, “I think we’re getting closer, but I’m not so sure it’s a good thing…”

      “Just stay low, and whatever you do, _don’t_ let them see you.” There was an edge to his voice, and he made no attempt to cover it. They were walking into danger, a trap if the Courser was listening to the Gunner’s screaming over the intercom, and no amount of joking or lying could hide that fact, “Just—”

      There was an ominous creaking from above them, like something heavy was barely being held up, “… That was _not_ a good sound.” Deacon climbed the next flight of stairs, looked down both sides of the hallway, and then gestured for her to follow, “I wish we had some kind of plan,” It would have been impossible to form a plan, they didn’t even know what the Courser was truly capable of.

      “We do have a plan,” He started, waiting for her at the top of the stairwell, “It’s a pretty simple one _. Don’t die_.” She couldn’t help laughing at his tone. Deacon shushed her, looking above them intently, “… They’re above us, I think I can hear ‘em walking around.” Though she tried to listen for footsteps, she heard nothing, and shot Deacon a doubtful look.

      “Seriously? You can hear that well?”

      “You learn a few things in this line of work.” Was all he said before waving his hand, as if to say, ‘ladies first’. Sol rolled her eyes and guided them through the winding hallways, looking for any sigh of the Courser or the synth they was after. As they came to yet another flight of stairs, this one smaller than the last, they both heard voices.

      “Give me the password, and I will make your deaths painless,” The Gunner cursed at the Courser, who only asked for the password again.

      “One track mind, huh?” She commented, taking the steps as slow as she possibly could. Sol didn’t want to alert the Courser to their presence, or it could be their lives. The double doors to the room were open already, and she caught the occasional glance at a man in dark clothing. His demeanor was cold, and his face showed only passive interest. The most unsettling thing was that he looked like any man she could have met in the Commonwealth, if not for his odd clothing. She had expected him to be… Strange or inhuman, despite what Deacon had told her back at the house.

      The second Deacon caught sight of the Courser, he tensed, “I was kind of hoping there wouldn’t be one,” He admitted, his fingers tightening along the stock of his gun, “I’m fresh out of ideas,” The debris above them groaned again, louder and high-pitched this time. Something _snapped_ with a metallic whipping sound, and she flinched, thinking something might fall, “You got any?”

      Sol looked up warily as an idea came to mind, “Just one, and it’s going to sound crazy.”

      “I watched you take on a Mirelurk Queen, alone, I think you’ve got crazy covered,” She laughed a little, trying to keep her voice down, and did her best to ignore the bite in his words, “Besides, it can’t be worse than going after a Courser with no plan,” He added a little dryly, but she could only shrug in response.

       “When do we go into anything with a plan, Deacon? Just trust me on this, and do what I tell you to,” Sol held her rifle in her hands, and looked up toward the ceiling through the scope. Just as she’d suspected, there was a collapsed floor above them, a section barely hanging by a few steel cables above the next room. The cables were ancient and rusted, and with each sway, it would whittle away a little more. With a well-placed shot or two, she could bring the collapsed section down on the Courser, but also on themselves if they weren’t fast enough to avoid the debris.

      “You’re not—You _are_ , “ He shook his head a few times, not sure he was really seeing what he was seeing, “You could bring the whole floor down on us,” Deacon hissed quietly, not wanting to grab the attention of the Courser in the next room. Despite their best efforts, something stopped the Courser in his tracks. He stopped, turned on his heel, and headed for the door they were only a few feet from.

      “You there! Come here!” He’d seen her and she froze up, not sure what would happen next, “You’ve been following me.” From his tone, he wanted to talk, and that could be to their advantage. If she could keep him talking, maybe Deacon would be able to line up a shot. Either at the Courser himself or at the cables above them. Either way, she had no choice but to face the man.

      Sol took a deep breath, “Well, now _you’re_ going to possibly drop the whole floor on us.” The Courser was waiting for her just inside the room, and he hadn’t seem to take notice of Deacon yet, “If you see an opportunity, take the fucking shot, Deacon. I don’t care if I’m right next to him, _take the shot_ ,” She moved to stand, but his hand shot out to wrap around her right forearm. His lips were set in a hard line, and his brow was creased, but he said nothing for a long moment. For a split-second, she thought he might say nothing at all.

      “Count to fifteen and feint to the left,” Sol frowned, but didn’t question him. If he had a plan of his own, she could only hope that meant it was better than her own. Dropping part of a building on someone usually wasn’t a good idea, but it was all she could think of, and she hadn’t thought she or Deacon could’ve shot him from their place outside the room. But with her forced inside, and the Courser distracted by her, Deacon had the opportunity to what he did best. Play a ghost.

      He let go of her arm and she rose to her feet, stepping out of the shadows and into the Courser’s view, “You’ve gone through a great deal of trouble to arrive here,” He said in a monotone voice, staring at her with blank brown eyes, “Why?”

      “Oh, you know, places like these make _great_ scavenging sites,” He raised a brow, and she was struck by how quickly his demeanor would shift and change. It was as though he were trying to keep his emotions hidden, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. She started counting in her head. Fifteen seconds and then she would dive to her left, hopefully finding cover. Her eyes caught Deacon peeking in from the other room from her peripherals, and she started to step backward, counting on the Courser following her.

      She passed the front of the door and then so did the Courser, his back facing the bound Gunners and Deacon, “I find it hard to believe that you’re a _scavenger,_ ” The word was said with no small amount of distaste and she could feel the disgust rolling off him, “If you were, they,” His hand gestured behind him a little, “Would have killed you before reaching here.” He aimed his eyes at her, “I’ll ask you again, “ Ten seconds left, and she tried not to watch Deacon creep into the room.

      He crossed behind them, toward the bound Gunners, and started to undo the ropes around their wrists. As dangerous as it could be to let them out, it was better to use them in the fight than let the Courser use them as shields. Five seconds left, and Deacon was raising his rifle.

      “I, uh,” She cleared her throat, searching for any kind of response to give him. Deacon nodded at her and she couldn’t help looking at him for a moment. The Courser frowned deeply, and her heart skipped a beat. If he looked back, everything would be ruined, and any hope of an ambush would be ruined. Three seconds, and Deacon’s finger was on the trigger, the Gunners taking their own aim, “I’m here for you.” She said loudly, trying to keep his attention.

      Two.

      “Very foolish.”

_One_.

      Deacon fired first, the silenced rifle barely making a sound as the round buried itself in back of the Courser’s neck. Sol had only just barely thrown herself to the left when the Gunners opened fire on the Courser, throwing everything they had left at him. Unfortunately, even that wasn’t enough to stop him and the synth turned on the Gunner’s in moments, slaughtering them like nothing. He went after Deacon, in a rage, but he fought him off with his rifle, pushing it against the Courser as he tried to take the gun from him by force.

      Sol looked around from her place behind a large, cage-like structure and nearly screamed when she did. They were fighting over the gun, the Courser having lost his during the struggle, and the synth’s strength was slowly overpowering Deacon’s determination to fight back. The courser was forcing the rifle up, the barrel pointing toward Deacon’s chin. Before she could think about what she was doing, Sol had pulled Kellogg’s pistol from the holster inside her coat and fired it into his back.

      The Courser stopped, used all the strength he had to slam Deacon into the wall, throwing him to the floor, and turned on her. She fired again, and again, and she kept firing until the gun _clicked_. Each round tore into the Courser, and there were five large holes in his torso before he went down. Her hands were shaking and she dropped the gun, bolting toward Deacon.

      “Deacon!” She knelt beside him, afraid to touch him in case she hurt him worse, “Deacon, don’t you pull this _shit_ on me again,” Her voice cracked and she cupped his cheeks, “Shit, c’mon, _c’mon_.” Sol was begging, even if she would never admit that's what she was doing, and she nearly cried when he drew in a rattling breath.

      Deacon groaned, “Clean up on isle Deacon,” His face contorted in pain and Sol had never been more relieved to hear him make a terrible joke, “Forgot how hard those guys hit, _damn_ ,” She sagged in relief over him, her shaking hands moving to rest on his chest. As hard as she tried to calm herself, she couldn’t. His hands found hers, somehow, in the panic.

      “Oh thank God,” She murmured, trying to slow her racing heart, and she shifted her hands to his arms, “Are you alright, can you move?” He sat up a little, with her help, and he winced as he did. His shoulders twitched backward and he arched his back a little. Sol was more than sure his back was black and blue, “Wait—Forgot?”

      “I _think_ I’m alright,” Deacon rolled his shoulders, and he flinched, though he tried to hide it, “Yeah,” He sounded distant, “Switchboard. Tried to buy a little time, got knocked around,” It was all he had to say and she squeezed his arm a little. When she looked up, she gasped. There was a woman staring at them through the glass window of a small storage area, and she looked terrified.

      “Deacon,” She got his attention, looking toward the woman, “I think we found who he was after,” She was cowering a little, like she was afraid they might hurt her too, “Hello?” She asked, standing in front of the glass, “Are you alright? Can you hear me?” Deacon started to stand, swaying a little, and Sol reached out to steady him. He jerked at the unexpected contact, but he let her help him up.

      “I… I can hear you. Please, open the door,” She begged, sounding frightened, “Don’t leave me here! They’ll send another Courser, and I can’t go back,” She shook her head furiously, “I _can’t_.”

      “You won’t have to, don’t worry. We’re friends, and we’re getting you out of there,” The Courser chip was just behind her, and the synth they’d decided to save was in front. Deacon was alive and leaning against the wall.

      "She's not lying, we won't leave you here," He added, trying to gather himself.

      “Oh, thank you,” She held her hands over her heart, “ _Thank you_ ,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! I started up class again, so slower updates are coming, but hopefully that also means I'll also be able to make them better! After this chapter, I think I'm skipping ahead to right before the interceptor is used, because I have a little something planned for them before she uses it (anyone who's ever played a Mass Effect game knows what happens when the PC is about to go on a possible suicide mission, so take that as you will c:)
> 
> Okay! So I know Deacon is acting a little strange but the Courser is bringing back seriously bad memories and it's hard to joke through that stuff. I seriously love you guys though, you motivate me to write and I write this as much for myself as to make you guys happy! I'm just so happy you all enjoy it c: 
> 
> Comments and suggestions are always, always welcome! Let me know your favorite quests, because I'm adding more filler and I'd love to know what you guys would like to see! (Some may take longer than others because I have plans for some, like Cambridge Polymer Labs!)
> 
> Anyway! Love y'all, I hope you're all doing well~


	18. Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing she imagined could ever compare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM A BASTION OF SIN
> 
> This chapter is 100% porn with feelings, y'all have been warned!

       “I’m going to die,” Sol groaned, watching the Signal Interceptor spark angrily from her place by the window. It was nearly finished, all that was left was some fine-tuning and calibrating. Tinker Tom had been working almost nonstop on the project since she’d taken the chip, and then plans, to the Railroad. Desdemona had been shocked, disbelieving, interested, and then hopeful. She was hopeful that this would give the Railroad an opportunity. For Sol though, the interceptor meant much more than that. It was her _only_ hope, her only chance, to find her son. It had taken Tinker weeks to get this far.

      “Tinker’s projects _usually_ work,” He sounded a little nervous, but he covered it with a joke, “If you do die, can I have your stuff? I’ve had my eye on that scarf you picked up in Haymarket.” She laughed, remembering the long piece of wool in her bag. They’d found a store in the old mall that still had some clothing left, and they’d taken everything they could grab. It was so hard to find clothing, and underwear, that fit well.

      “Sure, just don’t wear the sequin dress. I want to be buried in that, it’s too pretty,” She crossed her arms, laughing, “You’ll stretch it out, and then I won’t be a very fashionable corpse.” Maybe it was morbid to be joking about her own, quite possible, demise, but it was better than the alternative. Neither of them would handle her showing her fear very well. And she was afraid. Sol was _so_ afraid. Who knew what waited for her?

      “Damn, and I look so good in blue,” She snorted, “Don’t you do that, you know I’m right,” He laid a hand on his hip and pouted at her, “You’ll hurt my _feelings_ , Bullseye.” Her nose wrinkled up at the codename. Though she’d been getting used to it, the codename was the only thing anyone in HQ called her, it was still strange to hear.

      The machine screeched and Tinker yelped, talking to the machine, “Oh, man! Uh, calm down, baby, c’mon—” Sol flinched when it sparked again, not sure if she could take watching anymore. She would be on that platform in the morning, as soon as the sun had risen enough to see the setup clearly, and it terrified her. For all she knew, she would never make it inside the Institute. It could _destroy_ her, instead of teleport her.

      “I can’t watch this anymore, I’ll make myself sick,” Sol admitted, shuddering, “Honestly, I don’t even want to _think_ about it.” Her stomach was twisting itself in knots, and dread was building steadily in her. The moment she stepped on the platform, _nothing_ would be the same. No matter what she discovered, or didn’t, she would be changed. It was frightening, and she forced herself to step away from the window.

      Mercer safehouse was the closest thing Sol had to a home nowadays. Not many people lived there, she was particular about the people she let into the settlement, and those few that did were sympathetic to the Railroad. The Institute had hurt a lot of people, and left a lot of destruction in their wake, leaving angry survivors and grieving loved ones to simmer with hate. It wasn’t hard to find people like that, but it was harder to find ones that didn’t blame the synths themselves.

      She’d sent the settlers to Sanctuary for a few days, telling them there was a celebration in honor of reclaiming the Castle, even though that had been nearly a month and a half before. They’d believed her, and one of the passing patrols escorted them north for her. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the settlers to get along with the Railroad, she was afraid what would happen when they used the machine. It could hurt someone if something went wrong. Sol could deal with it hurting her, but she hated the thought of it hurting someone else. So she’d ushered them away with the promise of food and alcohol. Thankfully, Sanctuary had a lot of that.

      “Then don’t think about it,” His arms wrapped around her waist loosely and he pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck. Her breath hitched, and she felt a fierce longing wash over her. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone before, and he _knew_ it. Deacon kissed her neck again, a little higher this time, and his breath washed over the shell of her ear. She couldn’t take it anymore.

      Sol turned in his arms, lifting her head to stare up at him, as though she might be able to see past his glasses if she looked hard enough, “Don’t— _Don’t_ do this unless this is what you want,” Her fingers dug into his shirt absently, and her voice was unsteady, “Deacon—” His lips silenced her, and any other thoughts she had vanished at the feeling. One of his hands wound its way into her thick hair, gently tugging when she pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. The fingers of his other were splayed across her back, pressing her close to him.

      She felt him shift, the hand in her hair ghosting down her side, resting on her hip. Her knee slid between his legs, and she felt him tense a little before relaxing into her once again. Sol was nervous, her hands shaking, but she was excited too. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about this before, on lonely nights, listening to his soft breathing. Maybe he had too, if his insistence on exploring her mouth was any indication to go by.

       He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and she wasted no time pressing another to the corner of his jaw. His fingers clenched into her clothing, like he hadn’t been expecting it, and her lips curved against his skin. She dropped down to his neck, nipping where she found his hammering pulse. Deacon took in a sharp breath, a shudder running through his body.

      She laid her palms flat on his chest, pushing gently, and he took a few steps back, the backs of his knees hitting the mattress. They’d been staying in her home, if that was the word for it, since arriving almost two weeks before to oversee the building of the Signal Interceptor. She’d cleared out the house farthest from the center of the settlement, and started keeping her things there. Eventually, there was a bed and a couch. A couple chairs, a table, and a small, old stove were pushed into the opposite corner the bed was. A few dim lights let her see his questioning features.

      Sol stepped with him, her hands drifting downward. He tensed, and she stopped, “Is this okay? I’ll stop if you want me to.” Her voice was soft, kind, and she would pull away completely if he asked her to. This was strange for the both of them, neither were used to any sort of intimacy anymore, and she was only willing to move as fast as he was. He mattered to her, more than she cared to admit.

      “It’s not that, it’s just…” He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. This was something foreign to the both of them. She doubted he trusted anyone enough for this, and she hadn’t been with anyone since Nate, “C’mon, Sol, _me?_ ”

      Sol brushed her lips over his collarbone, “No one else,” He grasped her hip tighter. She nipped playfully, leaving a red mark, and then pressed a kiss to the spot. He bit back a moan, and she laughed a little, “Kick off your shoes, or I can’t get your pants off.” Deacon laughed breathlessly, untangling his limbs from around her, and she took a few steps back to give him a little space.

      “What, eager to get started?” He teased, trying to stave off any nervousness with a joke. Sol’s lips quirked into a smirk as she watched him with hungry eyes. She felt light-headed and dizzy, but she couldn’t have been happier. His hands were on his hips, looking rather confident, and she licked her lips.

      “ _Very._ ”

      Deacon sputtered, arms falling limp, and his face gradually started to redden. Sol gasped, “You _blush_? Oh my God, I don’t know what to do with this information,” She laughed and he wrinkled his nose, crossing his arms now. Curiously, she wondered how far the flush would extend, and she hoped she would find out. He pouted at her, slipping out of the worn pair of shoes. She wore shoes as little as possible, they were hard to get on alone.

      “You’re so _mean_ to me,” Deacon huffed, sitting on the edge of the bed, “I’m nothing but good to you, and this is the thanks I get? Breakin’ my heart over here.” He lamented dramatically, laying on hand on his chest for emphasis. Sol snorted loudly, choking back the laughter that wanted to bubble up.

      She made her way back to him, and gently pushed his hands away when they tried to grab her hips again, “And you’re calling me eager?” Sol teased, cupping his cheeks in her hands. The fight with the Courser was fresh in her mind, and the thought of losing Deacon, like she’d lost Nate… It was too much for her. She stroked his cheekbones with her thumb, and leaned down to press a tender kiss to his forehead. When his arms curled around her waist, a soft, pleased sigh falling past his lips, she felt _whole_.

      She nudged his legs apart with her knee, making room for her to stand between them, and she braced herself on his knees as she sunk to hers. His arms moved from her waist to her shoulders. Her right hand flicked the button of his jeans open and she paused, looking up at him through dark lashes, “Can I?” He leaned back on his elbows, staring at her incredulously, and nodded after a few seconds. Sol pulled the zipper down aching slow, enjoying the way he squirmed when she palmed him through the material.

      He hissed a little when she slipped her hand inside and ran a teasing finger along the length of his cock and gently over the head. Deacon wasn’t wearing any underwear, though she knew it was more from a lack of availability than any preference he might have had, and smiled at the sight that greeted her. He was already half hard and swollen. She was grateful for the ease of access, however, and hummed in appreciation when she stroked him a few times.

      Deacon groaned, pressing a palm against his mouth, “ _Fuck_ ,” She barely kept held her laughter at bay, instead tugging at the waist of his jeans a little. He shifted his hips up, and then to the side, as she slid them down enough to get them out of her way. Sol pressed a kiss to the inside of his knee, then drug them up his thigh, relishing each time his breath caught. He shivered when she wrapped her hand around the base, thumb gently rubbing on the underside.

      His face was red, the flush spreading down his neck and what she could see of his chest. She swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, dipping down into the slit. Deacon grunted, his hand flying up to hold onto her hair as she took him into her mouth. There was a twitch in his thigh beneath her hand, and she hollowed her cheeks around him. He moaned against his hand again, pulling at her hair harder than he meant to, but she barely felt the sting.

      Sol bobbed her head a few times, listening intently for the smallest of sounds that escaped him. Deacon was so collected, so _measured_ , most of the time, and she wanted to make him fall apart. She wanted him to moan her name as he fell to pieces in her hands, and that was her goal as she swallowed around his cock. He gasped, unable to stop the rolling of his hips this time. It didn’t surprise her, and she took it in stride, hand stroking what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Deacon’s breathing was ragged, heavy, and the hand over his mouth was doing little to hide it.

      She pulled from his cock with a wet sound, lips swollen and dark, and aimed equally dark eyes up at him, “ _Shhh…_ ” Her free hand stroked up and down his thigh, “You don’t want Dez and Tinker to hear us, do you?” Deacon groaned a little at the thought, his hips snapping, and she laughed, “I mean it! Unless you want them to see me on my knees, sucking your cock.” Maybe she was playing dirty, knowing her words were getting to him, “Is that what you want?” She asked huskily, “For everyone to know what we’re doing in here,” Her hand picked up the pace, stroking him faster, and he moaned loudly, his attempt at muffling the sound a failed one.

      “Kind of— _Hmmm_ —A hard one to explain,” He laughed at his own pun, and Sol wrinkled her nose, looking up at him.

      “ _Really_ , Deacon? You can’t stop the bad jokes for five minutes?” She snorted, taking pride in his disheveled appearance. There was a bite mark on the heel of his palm, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat, “I can stop, if you’d rather make puns for the next few hours,” She offered playfully, pretending like she was getting ready to stand.

      “Please, _don’t—_ ” He almost begged, the hand not wound in her hair laying on her shoulder, and it turned her on more than she would ever admit. Knowing how desperate he was for her was enough to make the gathering heat in her belly coil. Deacon wanted her as much as she wanted him, and she smiled up at him, “You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?” He tilted his head, “Am I going to like it?” He laughed, though the sound dissolved into another moan, one that sounded suspiciously like her name, as she closed her lips around his cock again.

       The room was filled with wet, sloppy sounds as she moved her head up and down, sucking and swallowing. Deacon’s breathy, half muffled moans mixed in with the sounds and she found her hand drifting down from his thigh to the waistline of her own jeans. She undid the button easily and dipped her hand in, unsurprised to find herself wet already. The sounds he made alone were enough to make her needy. His glasses were still on his face, but she knew he was staring at her, watching her, and she moaned around his cock as her fingers circled around her clit.

       Deacon rolled his hips again, not bothering to cover the desperate sound that pushed past his lips as he watched her touch herself. Her breathing picked up, and he pulled on her hair, harder than he had before, and she groaned in pleasure, enjoying the tugging sensation. He was close, she knew he was from the way his thighs were tensed and his hand curled against her head.

      “Fuck—I’m _close_ ,” She took as much of him in her mouth as she could and flicked her finger over her clit again, moaning around his cock, “Shit, _Sol_ ,” He came with a whimper of her name, fingers carding through her hair. His hips rolled up and she swallowed, bobbing her head slowly as he rode out his orgasm. She pulled away with a wet, almost obscene, pop, and looked up at him through a haze, breathing heavily.

      “Cat got your tongue?” Sol teased, trying to catch her breath. He was past being able to catch his, chest heaving in the aftermath of his climax and he just flopped on his back, arm over his face. She laughed, pushing herself by up using the mattress, but wrinkled her nose at the stiffness in her knees. It was unavoidable, she supposed, and she finished undoing her jeans.

      “Isn’t that supposed to be my job?” Deacon hummed from behind her, shifting up the mattress. Sol laughed again, laying a hand on her hip and turning to face him.

      “Are you going to?” His mouth shut and another flush spread over him, and he puffed his cheeks out at her. She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh at him, but she failed, “Don’t worry, I have a few more things you can take off.” Deacon ran a hand over his head, snorting a little.

      “Like I said, _mean_ ,” Sol slid the jeans off, and crawled up on the bed beside him, “Well, hello,” He offered her a grin, hands sliding under her shirt to press against her skin, “I can’t say I like owing people. Let me return the favor.”

      Sol smirked, right hand toying with a button on his shirt, “By _all_ means, Deacon,” She purred, falling into giggles when he huffed at her, eyes crinkling at the edges of his glasses

      “I’m trying to be smooth here, Sol,” He complained, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips. The gesture was oddly tender and she felt her heart clench. She looked up at him, unsteady left hand raising to cup his jaw. The fingers on her skin tightened and she pressed flush against him.

      “Be _you_.” She said firmly, undoing the button between her right fingers. He kissed her hard, their teeth clicking together and she groaned into his mouth. Deacon rolled her on her back, his hands moving to the hem of her shirt. He stopped though, breaking their kiss and looking down at her.

      “How do I—With your arm, I mean,” There was nervousness in his tone, and dawned on her that he was worried he might hurt her. Sol kissed him softly, a little touched by his concern, and hooked a finger around one of the undershirt’s straps, and pulled it up. The material stretched far, more than long enough to just slip down her shoulder, and she let it fall back against her skin with a soft _snap_.

     “I raided a sports store not long after leaving the vault, looking for supplies,” She shrugged, “Found a stimpak, a baseball bat, and some sports clothing in pretty good condition. I have a couple shirts like this,” Sol was babbling now, and she might have gone on longer if Deacon hadn’t followed what she’d shown him.

      “Sounds like an adventure, Boss,” She lifted her arm, sliding it out of the lifted strap, “You’ll have to tell me about it,” He pressed his lips against her shoulder, repeating the process with her other arm, “ _Later,_ ” The shirt was shimmied up her torso, over her shoulders and head, and she was more than grateful for the elastic material as it was tossed to the floor. The universe had been throwing her a bone in advance, she supposed, and she started on undoing the rest of the buttons in his shirt. He shrugged it off when it was loose. Just as she’d hoped, his freckles and his flush extended all the way down.

      His hands were all over her, sliding across her skin like he was trying to memorize every curve, every rise and fall, and she arched into him when he positioned himself atop her, “Hi,” Sol murmured, a pleased smile on her face. He pressed his forehead against hers and chuckled, one hand reaching behind her to find the clasp on her bra.

      “Hey, Boss,” It took him a long minute, but he found it and undid the hooks. For a moment, she was self-conscious. He hadn’t seen the full extent of her scars, and the last scrap of fabric hiding them was gone. She waited for him to say something, maybe back away, and she closed her eyes in anticipation. Her eyes snapped open when she felt his lips on her left shoulder. Sol gasped softly, emotion catching in her throat, and he followed her scars all the way down her chest, “You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

      They crossed over her breast, and his hand brushed over them gently. She looked down at him, right hand sliding up his neck and under his chin. There was something so vulnerable, so _fragile_ , between them and her heart ached, “Kiss me,” She whispered, unsure he would even hear her. He did, and he obeyed, kissing her with a desperation she’d never known before. One of his hands drifted downward and she opened her legs when it pressed between them.

      He hesitated and she broke their kiss, “You can touch me, Deacon, it’s alright,” His glasses were still on, but she understood why. They were security for him, a way of keeping something to himself, and something under his control. She wouldn’t take that from him, and she could wait until he did it himself. His thumb brushed over a scar from a bullet on her outer thigh, and he trailed kisses down her neck. The hand between her legs started to explore, teasing her, and she arched her hips with a long, soft sound.

      He latched onto the junction between her neck and shoulder, nipping and sucking until a large bruise formed. Sol moaned softly, right hand clinging to the back of his neck. Deacon left several more on her skin before moving down. He moved along her body, pressing his lips down her soft, round belly. Sol had never lost the extra weight from her pregnancy, even as long ago as it seemed, and she didn’t mind. His tongue dipped into her navel as he passed and she squirmed, heat gathering between her thighs.

      Deacon’s hands wrapped around her thick thighs, fingers pressing into the dark skin, and positioned himself between them, “You okay?” She nodded, not trusting her voice, and relaxed against his touch. Each kiss he pressed against her skin was more confident than the last, and closer to where she wanted him most. She would feel his fingers for days, she was sure of it. Sol bit back a moan when he teased her folds with one finger, dragging a dull nail up and down the slit. He parted the lips and flicked his tongue over her clit.

       Sol moaned, eyelids fluttering a little, and she grasped at his bald head. There was nothing to hold onto, but she did anyway, trying not to buck her hips when he sucked gently. A rough, needy sound pushed past her lips when he slid two fingers easily into her, setting a slow pace. He spread them carefully, and she gasped, thighs tensing around him. Deacon took hold of one, hooking it over his shoulder, and did the same with the other. It gave him a better angle, and she was crying out when his fingers curled _just_ so.

      A shiver ran through her whole body and her thighs tightened around his head. He made a soft sound of appreciation, the hum sending shockwaves of warmth through her. His fingers pulled away and she whimpered in protest, but the sound soon turned to a shameless, gasping moan of his name when his tongue replaced them. It delved into her and she ground against his mouth, nails digging into his shoulder. His thumb reached to rub circles on her clit, and she quaked.

      “Fuck, _Deacon_ ,” Sol gasped raggedly, left hand clenching weakly to the thin sheets on the bed. She closed her eyes, moaning, and thought about the countless times she’d imagined this. How many times had she touched herself, pretending they were his hands and not hers? Vaguely, she wondered if he’d had the same thoughts about her.

      She wanted, _needed_ , more and she covered her mouth to smother a particularly loud moan when his tongue returned to her clit and his fingers teased her entrance again. Sol rolled her hips, the tight coil in her belly tightening further when he pressed them back inside her. Sol cried out when they curled against her g-spot again, and continued to brush against it with each thrust of them. Deacon’s tongue drew lazy circles around the nub, and Sol fought to catch her breath. Everything was rushing at her at once, and everything came crashing down.

      The tightly wound coil of heat _snapped_ suddenly, and she saw stars. Sol moaned Deacon’s name, thighs clenching around his head, and he kept working her through her orgasm. She was still shaking by the time the dizzy, high feeling started to fade and she was brought back down to earth. He was between her legs, licking his lips, and pressing the occasional kiss to the inside of her thigh.

      It was a soft, quiet moment while he crawled back up her body and kissed her. This one was gentle, undemanding, and she could taste herself on his lips. Her right arm curled around his neck and they pressed their slick bodies together. He hovered above her, their lips brushing a few more times as they breathed heavily. She tugged at his bottom lip gently, pulling it into her mouth, and then sucking on his tongue when it drug him in for a deeper kiss.

      He laid himself on her, carefully, and she used his care to flip them suddenly. She was seated atop him, their lips still pressed together, and his cock was pressing into her thigh. Her thighs were on either side of his hips, and his hands reached up to grasp them, thumbs tracing circles on the soft skin.

      “I want you inside of me,” She didn’t mince her words, palms lying flat on his chest. Her voice was quiet but filled with need. Deacon took in sharp intake of breath at her words and his hips twitched, showing her how much he wanted her too. He pushed himself up, their chests pressed against each other, and her thighs spread around him. This close, she could see the hundreds of freckles that covered his skin and the flush that spread across him at her words. He was red from his cheeks to his stomach, a creeping flush of rose down his flesh. There was gray in his stubble.

      “You won’t get any complaints from me,” Deacon laughed, one hand wrapping around her waist and the other splaying across her upper back, “Don’t be too rough though, I bruise easily,” She snorted, rolling her hips downward. He groaned a little, cock already hard on her thigh, and she stroked him a few times. A moment later, he stole her lips in a kiss and she opened her mouth for his skilled tongue.

      While he was occupied with, well, occupying her mouth, her right hand positioned his cock at her entrance. He rolled his hips as she sank down on him, and she arched, a needy moan lost in his mouth. Deacon broke the kiss first, burying his face in the crook of her neck, shoulders heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Sol slid her hands over his shoulders, hooking them together behind him. His hands spread to grasp her better as she rose up, and dropped back down. She moaned, nails digging into his shoulders, and savored the feeling of being filled by him.

      After a few clumsy tries, and more than a few sputterings of laughter, they managed to set a pace together. She rode him slowly at first, trying to build up her pace, and moaned each time he was fully inside of her. His hands helped her, moving her up faster and down harder. Each time his cock disappeared into her, she felt closer and closer to the edge of bliss. Deacon pressed searing kisses along her neck, peppering it with more dark marks. He was claiming her, and she _wanted_ him to.

      Sol ground her hips in a solid rhythm, gasping when Deacon tried to pull her closer. Their lips crashed together with bruising force, and they moaned into each other’s mouths. One of his hands unwound from around her and slid down between them. His thumb rolled over her clit and she broke their kiss, moaning and clenching her thighs around him. Their hips ground together and she rocked atop him, “Oh, _God_ ,” He groaned, thrusting upward as she rose up once more.

      She sunk down, hard, and threw her head back when he attacked her neck, nipping and kissing along her exposed flesh. It was hard to think about anything other than the wet, squelching noise that filled the room and the sound of skin slapping against skin. Nothing existed but her and Deacon. Her breasts shook with each movement, and she captured his lips in a heated kiss. His tongue traced along her lips, and his hand teased her clit mercilessly. She was gasping into the kiss, the rolling of his hips bringing her closer to the edge. Sol was almost there, but it was just out of reach, “Fuck—Deacon, _please_ ,” She whimpered, her pace starting to lose its rhythm. He was equally as needy, his fingers grasping tightly onto her.

      Deacon groaned, hearing his name said like a prayer, and moved to grasp her thighs as she rode him. They were a few sloppy thrusts and rolls of the hips from heaven, and Sol arched her back, breasts pressing against his chest, when his cock brushed against _that_ spot again. He moaned loudly when she tightened around him, and he rolled his hips the same way again. She trembled, walls clenching around him, as she felt the mounted, raging pressure start give away inside of her.

      “I’m— _Oh, fuck_ ,” Sol came on his cock, face buried in the crook of his neck, moaning his name, and he held her tighter as she rode through wave after wave of pleasure. She ground her hips downwards, trying to bring him with her, and he sagged against her. Deacon pressed his forehead against her shoulder, and snapped his hips with her pace. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say it, but the moan he let out was well worth it, she decided. Her breath washed over his ear as she whispered in it, “You can come inside,”

       It was all the invitation he needed, coming inside of her with a moan she thought sounded illegal. The sound was a mixture of her name, a curse, and a few other garbled things she couldn’t make out. There was a warm, sticky mess between her thighs, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was Deacon, who was still wrapped firmly around her. Sighing happily, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and he laughed breathlessly, lips brushing over her scarred shoulder.

      “You’re… Something else, you know that?” He kissed her again.

      “I’ve heard it, once or twice.” She murmured, kissing him back.

      Reluctantly, they started to untangle their bodies, and she pulled herself off of him and his now soft cock. Deacon’s fingers lingered though, and he pulled her against him when they fell back against the mattress with a flop and a groaning of metal springs. Sol turned in his arms, tucking her head under his chin. He drew patterns on her skin, some she recognized and some she didn’t, and she pressed lazy kisses on his neck and jaw.

      The machine outside hissed angrily, and Deacon tugged her closer. They were flush against each other again, but she felt nothing but tenderness, and a little worry. One of his arms draped over her waist and pulled an old blue quilt over them. As much as he made fun of her for gathering junk she probably didn’t need, a lot of it came in handy after a little work. The quilt was patched and had been washed, which was no small feat, and she curled against him under the fabric.

       It was like he couldn’t get enough of her skin. Wherever his hands were, he was gently stroking, and she laughed a little, feeling ticklish when they brushed up and down her side, “Stop it—” She barely muffled her giggles on his neck when his fingers rolled over a particularly sensitive place, “Deacon! I’m _ticklish_ ,” She whined, squirming when he repeated the action. When she looked up at him, pouting, he was smiling. The left side quirked up more than the right, and she loved his smile even more. It was so rare to see a real one, and she wanted to commit it to memory. He was still wearing his sunglasses, even if it bothered her, and his hand drifted down to her outer thigh.

       “I _know_ , that’s why I’m doing it,” Their legs tangled together and fingers intertwined beneath the blanket, his thumb absently rubbing circles on the top of her hand. Maybe it was silly, and she was still coming down, but she thought they fit together nicely. Pressed against him, Sol felt more like herself since before the bombs dropped.

      She peered back up at him, right hand rising to cup his jaw. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against her, and she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him again. There was no hesitation in his return and she smiled into it, stroking his stubble. No matter where they were, what time of day it was, or how long it had been since his last shave, he always seemed to have the same amount on his jaw.

       “You’re going to be fine,” She wasn’t sure if he was lying to her or to himself, “Institute bastards won’t know what hit them,” Sol pressed herself close to him, lips brushing against his ear. As much as she wanted to reassure him, she couldn’t. She didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep, and she couldn’t say she was coming back. There was a good chance she might die before even reaching the facility, and his hands tightened on her when she didn’t respond.

       “I won’t say I’m coming back,” Emotion swelled in her chest and she pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, “But if I do,” His thigh slid between her legs, “I’m coming back to _you_.”

       Deacon kissed her like he wanted to drown, and she let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... This is just a massive pile of SIN and EMOTIONS and I hope you guys enjoyed it! I hope to write more sex scenes, though not necessarily as long as this one!
> 
> I'm super rusty at smut, so bear with me!! I've been working on this thing for days, and finally wrote the majority of it last night. Like I said, porn with feelings! So, so many feelings
> 
> Deacon being a bottom is my JAM, I didn't even realize I needed it until now. Even during sex they can't stop making bad jokes and laughing and-- I just love them a lot. Bonus blushy!Ginger!Deacon who's trying to be smooth and can't stop being flustered enough to ACTUALLY be smooth lmao 
> 
> The next chapter will have plot, I promise, I just felt like this needed to happen before I moved on from the second act! Someone said something about having to woo Deacon and I got a little out of hand with that!
> 
> Comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always welcome! I love to know what you guys are thinking or what your reactions are to the chapter C:
> 
> *(If you see any unfortunate typos or missing words, let me know! I'm terrible at editing my own work)


	19. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her world was flipped on it's axis. Again.

      Energy buzzed around her as the white cloud covering her vison slowly dissipated. She felt unsteady and enormously nauseous, like she might lose anything she’d eaten in the Institute if she dared moved. They’d said it might be a little disorientating with the Courser chip in her Pip-Boy, but less so than when she’d used the interceptor to hijack the signal. That had been some jury-rigged, half-fueled by hope, piece of junk Tinker had made work by some miracle of science.

      She wasn’t sure if the Courser chip was an easier ride or a harder one, the shock of discovering her son was enough to numb any other feelings she might have had. He was alive, and far older than she’d feared. Shaun was a sixty year old man, he had lived a long life without her and it destroyed her more each time she thought about it. What had disturbed her more than her son’s odd reaction to her arrival, was the boy. Though she wasn’t sure if he was a boy at all.

      He was her son too, in some strange, fucked up way. The scientists kept telling her how proud she must be of him, her darling Shaun, and all of his accomplishments. But he only made her sick. Her baby, who wasn’t a baby anymore, was responsible for so much death and destruction. He talked about those on the surface as if they weren’t people, barely deserving to breathe, let alone live in peace.

      The best hope for mankind. She’d heard it a thousand times before in the Old World. It was always fueled by greed and hatred. Sol had seen what the Institute had done to University Point, and what they had done to countless more settlements along the way. They took people, she knew that was a fact, and that was enough to disgust her. The surface, and the people who lived there, were expendable to Shaun, and she couldn’t live with that.

      She’d transported herself far from HQ, smart enough to know they might track the locations she relayed to, and nearly into the gates of Diamond City itself. She thought of teleporting straight into the market, she _needed_ a drink, but thought better of it when she it dawned on her that, perhaps, people wouldn’t react well to her materializing out of nowhere in a burst of blue light.

      There was no way of knowing how long she’d been gone, there was no concept of night and day in the Institute. It was always brightly lit, and there were people working at all hours, no matter what time her Pip-boy displayed. It could have been days for all she knew.

      There was a hole in her chest so large, it dwarfed the one Nate’s death had left. Shaun wasn’t dead, he was alive and talking to her. He looked at her with too-familiar eyes and his face twisted in ways she’d seen her own twist in mirrors. There could be no doubts that she was his mother and he was her son, save for their ages.

      Sol’s hands were shaking, though she hadn’t noticed it before. In fact, all of her was shaking, and the truth rolled over her in waves. She wouldn’t be taking her son home, and he wasn’t going to grow up under her watchful eyes. He was already grown, and he had done things that made her sick. She was an experiment to him, to see if she could survive the wasteland. She _had_ , but only because she refused to give up on looking for her son. What did she have to keep going for now?

      She had found him, she had failed, and now she didn’t know what to do. About anything, anyone, her life had been flipped upside-down yet again. Sol wanted to find a small, dark place to curl up and _mourn_. Her little boy, who had just giggled up at her what seemed like a few days ago, was an old man with no regard for life. She had to tell the Railroad about him, and about Patriot, but she was afraid.

      What if they didn’t trust her? She was the mother of the director of the Institute. Like the synths had said when she passed them, they wouldn’t have existed without her. Somehow, she felt responsible for their imprisonment in the facility. The synths were made from her son, who had come from her. In some sick way, she was all of their mothers too. A spark of determination ran through her. _They_ were her children too, and she would save them from the life they’d been forced into. The institute had already stolen Shaun from her, she wouldn’t let them make slaves of the synths any longer.

      Would Desdemona throw her out? What would they tell the rest of HQ? They _certainly_ didn’t need to know everything. As much as she wanted to stop for a drink, she couldn’t. Patriot had a message for the Railroad and she had news of her own to share. After that, she wasn’t sure what would come next.

      The journey to the Church alone was a quiet, solemn affair and she wished Deacon was there to crack a bad joke to take her mind off the thoughts in her head. They were running a mile a minute and she asked herself questions that only tortured her more. What was Shaun’s life like? Had he been loved? Did he have his own, different, mother in the Institute? How could he have let the terrible things the Institute had done happen? Had he ever seen the world above? Or met anyone not with the Institute?

      Most of all, she wondered if she could change his mind. If, somehow, she could still bring her son home. It was a foolish thought, more of a hope really, but it nagged at her. Sol had already gone so far to find him, how could she stop now? He would _have_ to see reason, wouldn’t he?

      She’d gone through the church for once, wanting to avoid people for as long as possible. Sol felt a little sick descending the stairs into the catacombs, thinking about the people that waited below for her. Tinker, Glory, Dez, and, most of all, Deacon. It would be hard to tell them Shaun wasn’t coming back. Maybe it would be easier if she told them he was dead, but they would know she was lying. As horrible as it made her feel to think it, maybe it would have been better if he was dead when she found him rather than the head of the very organization she was sworn to destroy.

      Not easier, never easier, but _better_.

      That thought made her even sicker.

      Sol pushed the door into HQ and it was loud. HQ was always loud, a dozen people in and out, sharing information and trading things. For a moment, as she lingered at the archway into the room, no one noticed her and she looked around the room. Glory was by Tinker Tom, gathering up a few things, smiling and shaking her head. Absently, she thought Glory might be going to clear a route. Desdemona was smoking in front of their command table, something she only did when stressed. Carrington was in his corner, going over something with one of the runners. She didn’t see Deacon, but she saw something else that caught her eye.

      _~~Bullseye.~~_

      On the chalkboard, under agents, her name was struck through. Her heart sank. They thought she was _dead_. If she turned around now, maybe she could pretend to be for a few more days, come up with some kind of bullshit story that would explain everything. But she couldn’t, she knew that, but _God_ did she want to. More than anything, Sol wanted to be a coward. To run from the truth, like she’d been doing, but everyone had to face the music at some point.

      She stepped into the light and Drummer Boy cried out, spotting her immediately, “Bullseye’s back! Holy—Guys! Bullseye’s back, she’s _alive_!” _barely_ , she thought as she walked into the room. People smacked her on the back, cheering and congratulating her, but Desdemona only gave her a solemn, soft look. No one else knew where she’d been to yet, only that it was a dangerous mission, and they were glad to see her. It had to be all over her face, her failure and her son’s fate, she was sure of it.

      “You thought I was dead?”

      “The machine exploded after you used it, we watched you get vaporized. Tinker said you made it through, but…” she could only imagine what they must have thought, watching her vanish into a million fractures of blue light. Was it any wonder they thought she was dead? _She_ thought she was dead for the first few seconds after relaying, “and then we heard nothing for days, not that we were expecting that, but—”

      Sol cut her off, “But as far as you knew, I was dead.” She got straight to the point, “I found Patriot, Dez.” Desdemona straightened her back, staring at her with interest, “He’s a scientist, trying to smuggle synths out. He thinks the Institute is wrong about them.”

      “We knew someone on the inside was helping us. But this? An actual scientist?” she dropped her cigarette butt, crushing it under her heel a moment later, “Tell me everything that happened.”

      Sol frowned, “Everything?”

      Desdemona’s face softened for a moment, her eyes reflecting something like sympathy, before hardening again, “ _Everything_.”

      Sol felt empty after their conversation, and found herself staring at her crossed out name on the board. Her fingers gently touched the chalk, white residue smeared on them, and, for the first time, really thought about what Bullseye meant to the Railroad. It was more than just a name, it was a hope for them. Bullseye, another heavy, to keep their safehouses from burning for one more night. Sol wiped away the crossed off name, pale dust all over her sleeve.

      Hesitantly, she picked up the piece of chalk on the blackboard, and stared at it. Bullseye, _she,_ mattered to them. With that thought in mind, she wrote her codename in neat, block letters on the board. Behind her, there was whispering and a door opened with some force, but she barely paid attention as she moved onto the second ‘L’. She was forced to stop when she felt eyes burning into her back. Her fingers faltered, and she felt the overwhelming urge to _cry_.

      Sol hadn’t cried yet, desperately trying to hold on to some semblance of control, but her world was spinning again. Nothing fit together right. It was like she was trying to put a porcelain bowl back together. The rough, ragged edges scraped and rubbed against each other, only serving to shatter the delicate material more, and no amount of forcing would ever fix the broken pieces. The last ghosts of her old life were slipping away, between her fingers, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

      “You’re alive,” Sol wasn’t sure if it was a question, a statement, or if he was as surprised as she was that she’d made it back. She wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t hear the relief in his voice, and she wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t make her broken heart warm a little. When he’d arrived or how long he’d been watching her, Sol couldn’t be sure, but hearing his voice _, knowing_ he was there, was a larger comfort than she’d expected.

      “I am,” she wasn’t sure what else she could say. The words escaped her, and maybe it was better that way. If she had a way to describe what had happened, the things she’d found, Sol wasn’t sure she wanted him to know. The grief was too close to her heart, and if she let it go, the aching would never stop. She would be lost to it, and she had neither the luxury nor the time to mourn her family yet. There were people that needed saving, bad guys that needed shooting, and she wanted to forget who she was for a little while.

      “And alone,” his voice was soft, gentle, but she laughed. The sound was a hollow one, and vaguely bitter. Deacon was blunt, there was no way around the fact. He had to be when he wanted to be taken seriously. Her grip on the chalk was tight, enough so she was worried it might snap between her fingers, but she made no effort to stop. There was questioning in his tone, even if it wasn’t a question.

      “He’s alive, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sol finished writing in her codename with shaking hands, the lines of the second half messy. Shaun was alive. The truth, which she avoided telling if she could, was all she had for him and she was sure he only had more questions. She didn’t want to be here for them, in front of the others. They knew nothing about her, despite praising her for her help, she was a stranger.

      “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

_Yes._

      “No.” she was lying, and they both knew it. Sol was a terrible liar when it came to Deacon, he always seemed to know when she was trying to keep secrets. Usually, he left her alone with them, understanding why she would keep such things to herself. But not this time. He was beside her a moment later, footsteps silent in his approach.

      “But you’re going to tell me anyway,” he said it in _that_ way, like he knew she would.

      Sol felt her lips quirk up a little, and his fingers found her left hand. They intertwined, and she felt the urge again, “… Not here, there’s too many ears,” and too many eyes. They didn’t need to know or see her grief. Sol was hesitant to even tell Deacon about Shaun, but he would find out one way or another. There was nothing anyone could hide from Deacon if he truly wanted to know. She was no exception, as she remembered quite well. It made her stomach churn, remembering the things he’d seen. He already knew what had been done to her husband, right in front of her. What more was the ending to that story? They left through the escape tunnel, dodging Carrington when he wanted to look her over, worry in his tone.

      The ruins of Boston were quiet at the moment, the sun having just barely set. The streets were bathed in dim light as the last dying bits of sunshine shone over the buildings. Shadows began to swallow everything, and she felt infinitely more comfortable. In the sunlight, anything she could see could see her too, and that made her uneasy. It was easier to travel and fight by night, even if visibility could be an issue. She knew Deacon was of the same opinion as her.

      She told him, quietly, about some of the things she’d seen. Even more about what she was told. Sol cursed his sunglasses once more, wondering what he was thinking. There was a tightness in his jaw, and her stomach turned. They took a sudden turn down an alleyway. On the corner of a wall, behind a fence, was a railsign, and fire escape up to the roof. There were also three turrets, and a broken wall into a small room, “Up the stairs. This the best place for a drink, trust me,” Sol offered him a skeptical look, but he only gestured for her to go up, “You want to get drunk or not?”

      “Please,” she furrowed her brows as she made her way up the stairs. Halfway up, she heard music. Diamond City radio, and Magnolia was singing at the moment. Sol liked Magnolia, she reminded her of the old world. It made her hard to talk to sometimes though, the woman looking like she stepped right out of it, and it brought back memories she didn’t want. She kept her visits to Goodneighbor to a minimum anyway. MacCready was still sore after she left him at the Castle with Preston, and had given her an earful after they met up again. For a man who didn’t curse, he was very creative with his wording.

      There was a small bar at the top, nestled on the roof of a short building sandwiched between two far taller ones. The part of the building facing the street had a wall built higher, keeping the haven hidden from prying eyes. The bartender was cleaning the counter, a wash cloth that had seen better days crumpled up in her hand, “Doe,” she said suddenly, eyes falling on Deacon. He made his way to her, hands in his pockets.

      Sol knew better than to ask. What would be the point? He would lie, or push some story onto her about it, and she didn’t have the energy for either. There were a few tables, chairs around them, and she settled down in the one farthest from the bar. In the corner, she could see the whole area, and watched Deacon speak to the woman. His shoulders were relaxed and he was slouching, one hand dancing back and forth.

      A few minutes later, he wandered over with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and pair of dirty glasses in his other. They were all set on the table, and he settled into the seat across from her. Sol took one of the glasses, and broke the seal on the bottle, “He’s the director.” Deacon’s expression faltered, the smooth look crumpling for a second. The brief lapse was covered quickly, but she had seen his surprise.

      “And how does that make you _feel_?” he joked, sounding rather sage-like for a moment. Deacon was trying to keep the conversation as light as possible, but it was easy for her to see he was conflicted. She wondered what he was thinking. Sol had tried so hard not to be excited about, possibly, finding her son, but had failed. There was a half decorated room at the co-op that would never be used. Deacon had helped her drag in a mattress, lips twisted into something doubtful, and she couldn’t face the place again.

      “Like shit,” she frowned, filling the glasses up two-thirds of the way, “How am I supposed to feel?” It was rhetoric question, and she was glad when he had no sarcastic quip to toss in. It wouldn’t have made her feel any better. The burn down here throat did though, in some strange way. If her throat ached, it was easier to ignore the aching in her chest. She took another drink from her glass, barely noticing Deacon wasn’t touching his own drink.

      “All joking aside,” she offered him a _look_ , and he laughed, “No, seriously, though,” his fingers curled around the glass, tapping rhythmically, “I’m sorry. I really am. I thought,” Deacon paused and frowned a little, “It doesn’t matter what I thought, I’m just sorry.” There was tension in the air between them and Sol found her frown deepening as she stared at him.

      “Dez wants me to go undercover, she—”

      “I know,” he said, stopping her words there. It wasn’t shocking to find out he knew already. He knew all sorts of things, even things he shouldn’t or couldn’t have known about. It was both fascinating, and frustrating, beyond belief. Was he cracking a joke? Telling her a truth he knew she wouldn’t take seriously? For all she knew, he could have told her about himself without her even knowing.

      “I can still save him, Deacon,” it might have been foolish, but how could she live with herself if she didn’t try? She loved her son, no matter what he did, and she couldn’t stop fighting for him. What kind of person, mother, could she say she was if she didn’t? Deacon took his first drink, a sour look crossing his features.

      “Sol,” he said seriously, setting the glass back down on the table, “You have to understand something about the Institute,” she finished her drink, trying to force away the lump that had risen in her throat again, “You can’t change them, and you can’t save them. You can’t save people who don’t want, who don’t _need_ , to be saved.”

      “How can you tell me that?” Anger bubbled up and she pursed her lips at him, “He’s my _son_ ,” The glass _thumped_ solidly on the table when she set it down, “I’ve come so far, and done things I can’t believe I’ve done, for him,” Sol’s fingers curled into the fatigues she was wearing, “How can I just… Give up?” She looked away from him.

      “He’s not your friend,” Deacon blunt with her, leaning over the table a little, “He _can’t_ be your friend. Just think about what you’re saying, who he is,” as gentle as he tried to be, each word left her aching, “he would throw you to the wolves in a second if he thought it would help him reach his goals faster, and you know it.”

      “You don’t understand, Deacon, I can’t—”

      “I understand better than you think,” his tone was sharp for a moment, but it had evened out by the time he started again, “Hell, I probably understand better than anyone else,” he filled her glass again, his own only half drunk, “but he’s the enemy now, Sol. You can’t,” His jaw clenched, “You _can’t_ fuck this up. They’ll kill you, and then it’s all our asses.”

      Deacon was right. Sol hated it, hated _him_ —she deflated, covering her eyes with her hand, “It’s not fair,” her voice was thick, and her bottom lip wobbled tellingly, “It’s not fucking _fair_ ,” tears burned her eyes, and her voice cracked, “It was so stupid to think I could—” Her breath hitched on a sob. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. The dam had been broken, and every ugly thing she kept inside came pouring out, “I just wanted him _back_.”

      “Shit,” Deacon pushed back his chair, metal legs scraping on the concrete, and moved to the seat next to her, “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m not—Damn it, I’m not good at this, alright?” he rubbed his forehead, sighing as she wiped furiously at her eyes. She _hated_ crying. Her eyes felt puffy, and her throat hurt. Sol started sniffling, and she felt absolutely pathetic. It always left her feeling drained, like she could sleep for another two hundred years, and she couldn’t stop.

      Her son was beyond on her now and there was nothing she could do to change that. As hard as she tried to tell herself that, the little voice in the back of her head condemned her. She was abandoning him to his fate, whatever that may be, and it would be her fault when things went wrong. If she had tried a little harder, or fought a little more, maybe she could have saved him.

      But Shaun wasn’t a little boy that needed saving. _He_ was the person people needed saving _from_ , and her heart broke in the face of the truth. She had lost her son long ago, before even waking up.

      “I hate when you’re right,” she rasped, trying to dry her tears on her sleeves.

      “If this was one of those cheesy, pre-war flicks, I’d offer you a hanky or something,” despite her tears, she laughed. He always managed to make her laugh when she needed it. Sol needed _him_ , but she had already accepted that. When she woke in his arms, before using the interceptor, she knew. There was no one she’d rather have by her side than him, and she leaned on him, still sniffling, “Sounds like you could use one,” she huffed a little, pushing at his thigh.

      Deacon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, “Stop making fun of me,” she pouted, scrubbing at her eyes. The tears hadn’t stopped, but they had slowed a little. Her heart ached with the amount of grief she felt. Everything she’d done had been in vain—all the people she’d killed, the lives she’d stepped in and out of—and for what? To find out her son was the very thing she’d been fighting against? The universe had a sense of humor she wasn’t particularly fond of.

      “Where’s the fun in that?” his fingers drummed on her side, and she was fairly sure he was unaware he was doing it, “There’s something I want to tell you,”

      “Sounds ominous.”

      He chuckled softly, “I mean, if we’re confessing things,” spilling her guts to Deacon had helped, a little, and the least she could do for him was listen, “I really appreciate you putting up with my bullshit. Truth is,” his face tightened, and he looked years older in the firelight, “it’s been a long time since I’ve had… A friend.” He seemed unsure of his words, like he was searching for the right ones to say, and she snorted a little.

      “Is that what we are? Friends?”

      Deacon laughed, shaking his head, “ _Something_ like that,” the harrowed look returned and she frowned, “Just… Let me get this out, yeah?”

      “I’m not going anywhere, Deacon,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever!! I'm sorry guys, school is getting back into full swing and I've been preparing for a speech in my comm class (ew) This is also the part where I remind you Sol is an unreliable narrator, and that the chapter seems kind of jumbled because her thoughts are a jumbled mess at the moment! 
> 
> This was kind of a serious, heavy chapter, but the next few will be way lighter, funnier, and have /way/ more kisses, I swear! (I have plans for Salem, some adventures around Quincy, and a few other things~)
> 
> The little bar I mentioned is a real place ingame! I found it once, kind of filed it away in my head, and then used it in this fic. I tried to find it again, to get the bartender's name, but I couldn't find it again! If I find it again, I might go back and edit in a few details, like accurate setting and the poor bartender's name
> 
> Also yes!! It is implied the ending is going into Deacon's final affinity talk. I myself am a little torn about his story with the Deathclaws and Barbara, but I don't really see the point in him lying about that? It's a lie that ruins friendships when it's found out. There's no lesson, no reason, in that lie. It would just be cruel, and Deacon is a lot of things, but cruel isn't one of them.
> 
> So, I think Barb was real, even if he might have exaggerated on details. For all intents and purposes in this story, I'm working off the assumption his final story is real, though dramatized, that he is John D., Johnny D., ect., and that the Railroad is his #1 priority! (I read the terminals everywhere I go and cry bc it adds so much more emotion to the game)


	20. Spellbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring ruined buildings and getting into fights with monsters? Sounds like Tuesday.

      “The doors are chained,” Sol frowned, pulling on the double doors to the museum again. She and Deacon both needed a break, far from HQ, and she’d heard about the Salem Museum of Witchcraft from a Diamond city guard. Back in her day, it was a tourist’s paradise, and she was more than a little curious to see what had become of the old building. She was a little disappointed to find nothing but a few mirklurks and a militia consisting of only one very strange, but rather kind, old man. At least he’d given them a nice gun.

      “Reba says you should stop before you hurt yourself,” Deacon hummed from behind her, hands wrapped around the gun itself. It had come with a name, Reba (II, if she was being exact), and the old man had talked about it like the weapon was a woman. Still, it was one of the best sniper rifles she’d ever seen, and it was easy to see why Deacon had all but claimed it as his own.

      “Reba needs to shut up,” she snorted, taking a few steps back from the door. They obviously wouldn’t be going in through the front.

      “Reba says you’re being _rude_ ,”

      Sol laughed, turning to look at him at the base of the stairs, “Are you going to do that the whole time?” he only offered her a grin, gloved hands wrapped around Reba’s stock, “you’re lucky you’re cute,” she didn’t miss the subtle flush that rose on his cheeks, or the way he mumbled under his breath when she passed by him. Sol bit back laughter and walked along the fence line, looking for another way in.

     “Museum of Witchcraft, huh?” a storm brewed above their heads, wind throwing debris everywhere, “Why can’t you ever take me anywhere nice? I bet there’s something _nasty_ inside,”

      “When isn’t there something nasty?” she laughed, pulling up on her brace a little. The strap hadn’t been tightened all the way that morning, her help a little more distracted than usual, and it was slipping down. It was only by an inch or so, but she could feel the ache in her arm setting in. Sol frowned at her arm, narrowing her eyes, but jumped when Deacon’s arm slipped around her waist, “How many times—! One of these days, you’re going to scare me and I’m going to accidently shoot you.”

      “And until that day comes, I’m going to keep doing it,” Reba’s strap was over his chest, the gun at his back, “Making noise means getting noticed, and I _try_ not to do that,” his fingers tugged her closer, her hips bumping into his as they walked, “Besides—is that a body?”

      Sol snapped her head to the left, looking toward where Deacon’s gaze had landed. There was a body, and they looked fresh. A sinking feeling started to grow in her stomach, “Right, because random bloody messes are a good sign,” not far from the body was a set of metal cellar doors, likely leading into the basement. It would be their way inside, but it left a bad taste in her mouth. Why would there be a corpse outside of it? Deacon stepped away from her, and slid through a break in the fence.

      “This… doesn’t look like it was done by a person,” he was kneeling beside the mangled body of a woman, brows furrowed below his glasses, “That pip-boy of yours plays holotapes, right?” he held a bloody tape between his thumb and forefinger, regarding it with more than a little disgust. Sol found the gate, and joined him in the side yard.

      “Yeah, wipe the blood off though. Let me just,” her fingers toyed with the pip-boy, trying to eject the current tape. After coming back, she had felt weak and listened to the tape her husband had left her. As hard as she tried to forget it existed, the urge to hear his voice and hear her son, the way she remembered them, was overwhelming. It had been no easy task to keep the holotape from being heard by anyone else. She didn’t want, nor did she need, their pity.

      Of course, it might have been easier to hide if she knew how to work the holotape player well. She frowned, pressing another button. The last time, that one had opened the cassette and pushed the tape out, she was _sure_ of it. However, it started the tape instead. Sol gasped, trying to stop the sounds that poured from the speakers. There was the sharp sound of feedback, and then Shaun’s giggling filled the air. Nate’s voice joined in a half-second later, “Oh _no_ ,” she whispered, “I’m—I’m sorry, this _stupid_ thing never works,”

      Deacon’s brows were raised above his glasses in surprise, but they slowly slid further and further down the longer she struggled to turn the tape off. He was standing now, the bloody tape in his hand forgotten for the moment, and she could feel shame rising on her cheeks. This was her own fault, she never should have let herself listen to the tape again. It never led her to a good place. But it was so hard, and she missed them _so_ much.

      Nate’s voice was stronger now, and it brought memories with it. Him proposing, Shaun’s birth—He was calling her a good mother and she felt _sick_. Nate said something about her own mother, and her heart clenched. Sol felt horrible forcing Deacon listen to this, and she fought with the pip-boy, frustration rising as her arm shook.

      Finally, _finally_ , her fingers found the right button and the player was blessedly silent. It flipped open a second later and Sol tore the tape out. She threw it to the ground, not bothering to look in what direction it landed, and tried to calm her heavy breathing. The tape was over but she could still hear Nate’s voice. She’d listened to it enough times that she knew the words that would have come next, and they played in her head of their own accord.

      “Was that—” he stopped himself, rubbing his free hand down his face, “stupid question, right,” she clenched her jaw, fighting against the emotion that bubbled up. This was neither the time nor the place for her cry about Nate, again, and she remembered the bloody tape between Deacon’s fingers. He shifted his weight from one left to the other, _pointedly_ not looking at her, “… Reba wants to know if you’re okay,”

      Sol snorted a little, “You can tell Reba I’m…” she paused, taking a deep breath, “I’m fine, I promise,” the bit of tension that had built in the air started to dissipate, and she ran a hand through her hair. Or tried to, anyway. The wind and moisture from the storm had tangled and frizzed her thick curls, and her fingers caught on knots as the nervous habit overcame her.

      She frowned, pursing her lips, and Deacon offered her the bloody tape with a soft chuckle, “Merry Christmas,” Sol was more than grateful for the swift change in topic, but she knew that this probably wouldn’t be the end of that.

      “A bloody holotape, probably full of screaming. Just what I always wanted,” he snorted as she wiped the plastic cartridge on her shirt, smearing red across the green fabric. Her eyes were off of him as she fiddled with the pip-boy’s holotape player again. Give her a nice, normal terminal and she could make it sing, but the pip-boy did nothing but fight her. She still found new functions every once in a while, not even knowing they existed. Maybe she could find a manual or something the next time they found a vault.

      The tape was popped in, and the player closed. Feedback screeched for a moment, and then multiple voices started to speak from it. Someone was missing, evidently, and then they found him. While she joked about a tape full of screaming, she hadn’t actually expected it to happen and the sounds unnerved her. It was the sound of these peoples deaths, and she felt a little harrowed once the tape stopped.

      “We’re still going inside, aren’t we?” he didn’t sound enthusiastic.

      “We’ll never know why they were here if we don’t.” Sol laid a hand on her hip, “Why the hell would a bunch of Gunners hole up in the museum? There’s _got_ to be better places to hide.” Gunners, from what she gathered, preferred places that were easily defended and had tactical advantages. The museum was a large, crumbling building with boarded up windows and, probably, a monster inside. Not exactly the best place for an outpost.

      “Reba says that, if we die, we’re blaming you,” the gun was moved from hanging off his back to back in his hands, ready for use if he needed it. Though she doubted he could much damage with it in an enclosed space. Of course, that was the reason she’d pushed Kellogg’s pistol onto him after the Courser. She couldn’t shoot it well, the recoil was too harsh for her left arm and she couldn’t shoot the gun one-handed. Besides, it kept things away from him and that was good enough for her.

      She knelt down and opened one of the basement doors. The room was empty and eerily quiet, save for the soft creaking of Deacon opening the door to her left. For some reason, her heart started to race. What was it Deacon had said about instincts? Her curiosity was stronger than her instinct to run though, and she crept down the steps. There was a single, dim light hanging in the middle of the room.

      Deacon shut the doors behind them, slowly following her into the room, “Empty. Huh. I don’t know, I expected—” he was interrupted by heavy, booming steps from the floor above them. A low growl traveled through the whole building, sending a chill down Sol’s spine. There was a deep, angry huff and the thudding steps moved across the floor again, “… _Shit_ , deathclaw,” he breathed, voice catching a little at the end.

      Her shoulder ached fiercely as she remembered her first encounter with a deathclaw. There had been a quite few since then, of course, and they’d even been forced to tangle with more than one when it caught their scent, but they avoided the creatures if they could. It was never a good idea to fight a deathclaw, but it wasn’t impossible if they were smart about it. She took another step into room, swallowing thickly when the sound of claws shearing through metal reached her ears, “This is _totally_ going to end well,”

      “Like I said, you never take me anywhere nice. Next time, _I’m_ choosing the ruined building we crawl through,” she laughed a little, rummaging through a toolbox on a table. Deacon came up behind her, poking his head over her shoulder, “Who keeps a book in a toolbox?” Sol held a small, blue book with a well-worn spine and yellowed pages, “I’m a little offended to be honest. You got to treat ‘em _nice_ ,”

      Sol flipped open the book to a random page, and promptly snorted loudly, “Edgar Allen Poe, _here_ , of all places,” she shook her head, letting Deacon take the book from her hand, “let’s just hope this isn’t going to be like his stories,” he made a soft sound of appreciation, flipping through a few of the pages.

      “It’s actually in pretty good condition,” she looked over her shoulder, tilting her head a little. Deacon liked to read, though there wasn’t much in the way of literature nowadays and he had to work with whatever they found along the way. There were a few books they’d found in the Boston library that weren’t ruined, and she tossed them in her bags. If they were carrying around her junk, what more were some books for him to read?

      He huffed suddenly, “I lied. It’s not. Look, someone _burned_ the middle,” he sounded upset, even more so than he was about the deathclaw stalking above their heads. The book was held open and pushed forward for her to see, the ashy, black insides smeared on his fingers. She bit back her laughter, the right corner of her lips twitching up a little. Deacon whined, “Sol, this is _serious_. They’re book-burners, we have to stop them,”

      Sol pointed to the ceiling, “I think _they_ might have already stopped the book-burners, Deacon,” as if to drive her point home, the beast growled loudly, and it felt as though it rattled her bones, “… I bet they did something stupid to make it angry,” the holotape hadn’t left much in the way of clues, only that they’d done something to catch the attention of the mutated creature. She couldn’t help but feel a little bad for the Gunners. It had to have been a terrible death.

      “You think?” he laid the book on a table, sighing dramatically, “justice has been dispensed then,” Sol rolled her eyes, moving toward the archway into the darker parts of the basement, “Now if only—What?” bits and pieces of _someone_ fell through the floorboards, blood spattering on the floor in front of her, “Jesus Christ!” he gasped, taking a step backward, and the deathclaw breathed _in_ and then _out_ , heavy sounds following it across the floor. Her heart started racing of its own accord.

      Sol’s face twisted in disgust and she crouched down, eyes aimed at the floor above warily, “I’m not—,” she caught a glimpse of its thick, armored tail, “Deacon, open the basement doors, this is a _terrible_ idea,” it only took him a few moments to reach the metal doors, but when he pushed on them, nothing happened. They didn’t even shift under his pushing and pulling. Sol’s brows furrowed.

      “This is going to sound crazy, but it’s _locked_ ,”

      “Maybe it was a ghost,” she offered, trying to keep the panic and fear rising up in her hidden. How could the doors be locked? They’d _just_ came in through there.

      “Haha, _very_ funny,” he pushed on the doors again, grunting when all his strength did nothing to budge the doors, “well, we’re not getting out that way. The only way out is…”

      “Up,” Sol finished, walking into the dark side-room. It was tiny, and gore was splattered all over the floor, blood dripping from the body half-hanging from the floor above. She wrinkled her nose, and Deacon gagged behind her.

      “I… Didn’t need to see that,” she side-stepped the mess, and poked her head into the next room. There was a lantern and a few candles illuminating the room, and a half dozen book shelves lined the walls. There was a good number of books, but few of them looked any kind of salvageable. The covers were dark and stained, edges and corners burned or rotted away, and she heard Deacon _tsk_ softly behind her. Most of the basement was similar. It was broken, torn down walls leading into dark, eerie rooms, and they were _lucky_ enough to have a very angry deathclaw for background noise as they crept along.

      She stepped into a dark room, barely able to make out a few vague shapes in the shadows, “I think this is the way up— _Shit!_ ” A light from the main floor flipped on suddenly, giving the room a foggy appearance as light spilled through the broken floorboards. Her head whipped back and forth, looking for the source of the light. Deliverer was in her hands, and she pulled the trigger on instinct when her eyes landed on someone lurking near the stairs up. Deacon’s laughter broke her from her panic.

      “Oh _man_ ,” he gasped for air, leaning on his knees dramatically, “I’m sure they’re _super_ dangerous, boss, but I don’t think we need to shoot the mannequins,” Sol’s cheeks heated, and she was glad it was harder to see the red on her face. She stuck her tongue out at him, a scowl starting to twist her lips, “ _aw_ , don’t be mad.” In the dark, at first glance, she’d thought it might have been a Gunner that escaped the massacre.

      That’s what they’d found in the basement. There were five or six bodies they’d already come across, most of them in pieces and strewn across the floor. When the deathclaw had come through, it had obviously been angry. From the looks of things, it came in the same way they did and made its way up. The bodies were in a trail from the second room all the way to the stairs. She suspected there were even more above them.

      “It’s not funny! They scared me—” the beast above growled low and long, the sound of debris being thrown around following where it drug on the floor. It passed over them, and she could _smell_ its breath washing over them from the gaps in the ceiling. It was angry, bloody, and she wasn’t sure what they could do to fight it, “If you’ve got any clever ideas, now would be the time to mention them,”

      His laughter had finally tapered off, and he cleared his throat, “This _may_ surprise you,” she cocked a doubtful brow at him, “but I’m not really much of a monster slayer. Tends to be a better idea to avoid them,” he shrugged, Reba firmly in his grasp, “Just sayin’,” Sol snorted and rolled her eyes.

      “What a shame, I pegged you as strong, fearless hunter,” she laid a hand over her heart, “how will I go on?” Deacon coughed, and she knew he was fighting the urge to laugh again, “C’mon, maybe we’ll get lucky and the deathclaw will run away when they see us,” he _did_ laugh this time.

      “Just give it the look you give me when I put your hat on the top shelf,” Sol narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursing, “Yes!” his finger gestured toward her several times, “That’s the one,” he shuddered, making an exaggerated noise in the back of his throat, “ _terrifying_.”

      Sol stared at him for a long moment, considering her choices, and then turned away, shaking her head. The stairs were across the room and she mumbled to herself the whole way, “You _can’t_ shoot him, Sol,” she huffed, “then you’d be sad, and then where would we be? Still fucking _here_ , that’s where,” Sol hadn’t slept the previous day, haunted by memories when she closed her eyes, and her patience was wearing thin. Not to mention it was being tested by the deathclaw, and Deacon.

      “You can’t shoot me, you’d miss me too much,” she could _hear_ his grin, “I make your life brighter,” Sol snorted. He was laying it on _thick_ , and she had to bite back a bark of laughter.

      “You also fill it with shitty jokes, and never shut up,” she wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if he didn’t know it was the truth, he _did_ make her days brighter. Without him, she never would have made it this far. In all likelihood, if she hadn’t followed the Freedom Trail that day and had gone to Diamond city like she was supposed to, she probably would have died. Sol was reckless and he was her voice of reason.

      … _Sometimes_ , anyway. Other times, he was the one encouraging her to take the plunge into the unknown and the dangerous. She scowled deeper, hating the way her thoughts twisted and shifted around him. He was a pain in the ass, even if she loved him. Her fingers tightened on the handrails as they went up, her thoughts stuck on that word. _‘Love’_.  It didn’t feel right, like she was somehow betraying Nate, even though she knew he would want her to move on. Hell, knowing her husband like she did, _he_ would have liked Deacon. He wouldn’t have blamed her.

      The door in the room at the top of the stairs was open, and the creaking of floor boards grew louder and louder the closer they crept to it. He hadn’t said anything since she started walking toward the stairs, and the silence was deafening was she approached the door on the other side of the railings. She barely held in a gasp at the bloody, mangled body of a man before her, his gaunt face frozen in an expression of sheer _terror_.

      Chills ran down her spine, and she took a step back, but collided with Deacon’s chest. His hands smoothed over her shoulders and curled around her upper arms. She looked up at him from over her shoulder, “Hey, we got this,” he offered her a crooked smile, his shadowed face portraying nothing but cool confidence. Even if that wasn’t what he was truly feeling, it was a comfort nonetheless.

      “Can’t keep going ‘til you let go,” she said softly, his fingers still holding her to his chest. His face scrunched up a little, like he was unsure, and then he released her with a small _‘oh_ ’. They both crouched down and peeked out the door. At first, she saw nothing and then— _There it was_. Huge, hulking, and vaguely green-tinted, it had great, spiraling horns on its head and a massive body that filled up the room. It was growling and shuffling through some debris. She tilted her head curiously. It was almost like it was… _Looking_ for something. But what? What could possibly have been here that the deathclaw was interested in?

      Deacon’s voice whispered in her ear, “The door should be in that direction,” his finger tapped her shoulder and then slid over it, pointing toward a very large hole in the wall, “if I’m right about how this place is setup, anyway,” he shrugged, face aimed toward the beast. Under his glasses, she was sure he was staring at its back.

      “… You remember the shotgun we picked up?” he nodded, “you have it in your bag still?” another nod, and she didn’t even need to ask her next question. The bag on his other shoulder was set down. There were only weapons in it, and they took turns carrying it during their travels (Deacon _tried_ to take it more often. She wouldn’t let him).

      “You sure this is a good idea? Last time you shot this thing,” his face tilted down. He was staring at her shoulder and threw her a knowing look, “it didn’t end well.” Despite his words, he pulled out the heavily modified double-barrel shotgun and handed it to her with a twist of his lips. Her arm had been back in a sling for a few after the last time, but they were alive, and that was more than she could say for the reason she had to use the gun.

       “ _This_ won’t end well if I don’t,” she whispered back, praying to whatever God was still listening that the deathclaw wouldn’t turn around and see them creeping in behind it, “Find someplace dark, and out of view. Aim for the belly, if you can. Run if it sees you,”

      “We’ve fought ‘em before, Sol,” he hummed, going over Reba for what seemed like the millionth time, “I know the drill.”

      “Yeah, well, we haven’t fought them in an enclosed space before,” she shifted her weight from side to side, swaying a little as she crouched behind a bookcase, “So… Be careful, yeah?”

      “Always am, Boss. Always am,” with that, he crept off in the opposite direction she did and she lost him in the shadows after only a few moments. It was both comforting, to know he was out of sight of the beast, and unnerving, it was strange to _not_ see him. All that was left was herself, and the heaving beast in the center of the room. It moved back and forth, stalking, between the different exhibits.

      It was obvious the deathclaw was occupied with something else. It should have been able to hear or smell her by now, but it hadn’t so much as looked in her direction. Something felt wrong, and a nauseous feeling rose up in her. Maybe it was playing with her, like her mother’s cat used to play with a mouse before killing it. She crept closer to it, raised the shotgun, and then tucked herself in a shadowy corner.

      It moved past her once, sighing deeply, and shaking its whole body. There was a sort of weariness to the beast that she recognized all too well. It lingered in the room she’d just been in moments before, and she was thankful she’d moved when she did. It smelled the air, inhaling through its nostrils in short, quick sniffs. Her heart skipped a beat when it turned around, and too-bright eyes landed on her form in the dark.

      Sol’s hands were shaking as she raised the gun again, trying to aim through the sights. The barrel of the gun was heavy, and her left hand was having a hard time keeping it up as high as the stock was raised. The pain in her arm became more obvious as she held the position, waiting for something to happen. She swallowed thickly, and the deathclaw took a step forward, snarling. Sol flinched, hands clenching and unclenching on the gun as anxiety and fear overcame her. If it was going to charge, she wished it just would already.

      The deathclaw _roared_ , raised its claws, and swayed ominously. It did that, twice, and then reared itself up at her. Her breathing picked up. It was rapid now, her chest heaving, and she felt light-headed. It charged and pressed one claw to the ground, propelling itself forward at her. She screamed, and pulled the trigger too soon. White hot pain shot up her left arm and she grimaced, jaw clenched. It wasn’t close enough for the shell to do much damage, but some of it made contact with the deathclaw’s chest. It was staggered, for a moment, and it gave her the chance to throw herself out of the corner.

      She landed on a pile of debris and scrambled up, kicking up pieces of wood and ruined books as she did. The pain was ever-present, but adrenaline filled her system as panic set in. A second later, she heard it growl and gather its bearings. She turned, aimed her gun at its belly as it reared up again, and pulled the trigger for the second time. Sol wanted to _cry_ , the pain that stuck her was overwhelming. Her arm was shaking too badly for her to do anything else with it. The deathclaw didn’t go down, but it was hurt. How badly, she couldn’t tell, but the pained roar it threw at her said it stung.

      There was no time, nor did she have to coordination to do it at the moment, for her reload her gun, the deathclaw already recovering from the shot. Sol took her own advice and _ran_. She rushed past the stunned beast, limbs trembling and clumsy. Stumbling more than once, she ducked into the next room, and didn’t stop moving. It was only a few seconds later that the deathclaw was behind her again. Its breath washed over her from behind and her heart thumped painfully against her chest as she gasped for air.

      It swung its arm up, she saw it from her peripherals, and she tensed, eyes screwing shut as she kept running.

_Bang!_

      The gunshot came from in front of her, and the bullet flew past her neck and over her right shoulder. It nearly grazed her, she could _almost_ feel it, and the deathclaw grunted. There was a distinct _click_ , and the metallic sound of a casing hitting the floor as Deacon loaded in another bullet. Reba was fired again and the beast screeched in pain. A moment later, she saw him. He was crouched near the entrance, having already found their way out, and Reba was being primed for another shot.

      She ducked beside him, and yanked the .44 pistol from the tool belt of his mechanic’s disguise. Sol had already used the shotgun and the recoil was worse than the pistol’s. With shaking, strained hands, she pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Reba went off. She shot a third time. Each shot send shockwaves of pain up her arm. It started in her fingers, and traveled up her wrist. It ached and twisted there, and then stabbed at her elbow. Sharp pain burned in her shoulder and she was sweating by the time Deacon’s next shot finally forced the deathclaw down. It gave one last roar, long and sad, and she sagged in relief when it didn’t get back up.

      Sol started laughing, despite the pain, “I thought you said you weren’t much of a monster slayer?” she teased, trying to catch her breath after the chase. As if she needed another thing to have nightmares about. Maybe her next dream would have less of her son and more of rending claws and snapping teeth. The later would be preferred over the former, if she had any choice in the matter.

      Deacon’s lips quirked up, “I lied. It’s what I do,” she rolled her eyes and sat on the floor, falling against the wall, “I think that’s deathclaw… what, number three? We’re gettin’ good at this,” he was grinning, his hands on his hips now that Reba was against his back.

      Sol snorted, “Oh, yeah, we’re good at running and shooting things, hoping we’re just a little faster,” she rolled her left shoulder a little, trying to gauge how long her arm was going to be flared up for this time. The pain forced a grimace on her face and she let out a ragged breath as painful tingling started up along the inside of her arm, “If you say I told you so…”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it, Boss,” he looked toward the doors, and then down a small hallway to their right. There was a large, green steamer trunk to their left, “should we take a look around now that the big guy’s taken care of?” Sol sighed, raising one hand up, and he grabbed it, helping her to her feet.

      “Sure. See if there’s anything useful in those boxes, I’ll check in this room,” he nodded, going toward the trunk first, and she went down the hallway. The rooms were bathrooms, but there was a body outside the door closet to the end. As she approached the detached door, she spotted the second body and a collection of strange looking shards. Sol knelt down to look at them, picking a piece up and turning it over in her hands a few times. It was hard, almost like bone, and tawny with strange speckles. It reminded her a bit of an egg—her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, aghast.

      This, _these_ , were why the deathclaw had been in the museum. She dropped the egg shard and scooped up a holotape sticking out of the dead man’s pocket, “Find anything interesting?” Sol nearly dropped the tape, startled by his voice. His silent steps would always surprise her, she was sure of it.

      “Another tape, actually. And these,” she pointed to the shards and he picked one up for himself, frowning at the egg shell, “I think that,” she pointed at the piece in his hand, “belongs to that,” her finger moved from his hands to the dead deathclaw down the hall. One brow raised above his glasses.

      “Seriously? These guys were dumb enough to _steal_ deathclaw eggs?” there was laughter in his tone and his shoulders shook with mirth.

      “They’re Gunners, Deacon, what did you expect?”

      “I dunno, common sense, maybe?” Sol snorted and he shrugged, dropping the egg shell back on the ground. There were a number of shells and shards, enough to make five or six eggs if she was guessing their size right.

      “Common sense is not so common,” she hummed, trying to pop open the pip-boy’s holotape player again. It took her a few tries, but she finally managed it, without turning on the previous one. She wanted to forget the incident ever happened, but she couldn’t help the guilt that built in her chest. She’d just thrown the tape away. She would never see it again, or ever hear Nate’s voice. Maybe it was a good thing, but it didn’t feel like it was.

      “Voltaire, nice,” she blinked, unsure what to make of Deacon knowing Voltaire. With as much as he read though, she shouldn’t have been surprised. If anyone could find the last copy of anything in the Commonwealth, it would be Deacon. She switched out the old tape for the new one and they both listened to the tape with rapt interest. They had stolen the eggs to sell to someone? That was… It didn’t sit well with her.

      When she looked to the right, she noticed one egg still intact. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around it and picked it up. It was heavier than she'd expected, and it was _warm_. She looked toward Deacon, standing up, “We’re returning this egg, the coordinates they took it from is on the holotape,”

      “Excuse me? Did you just say we’re taking the egg _back_ to the nest?” he shook his head, a little disbelieving, “Deathclaws, Sol, remember? Big, scary teeth and long, nasty claws. You know, like the one that just tried to _eat_ you.” He rubbed his forehead, sighing, “And you’re not even listening to me, are you?”

      “Nope,” she said shortly, wrapping her woolen scarf around the egg to keep it warm. Sol didn’t even know if a deathclaw egg needed to be kept warm, but it was what she was doing, “Think of it as good karma. We do a good thing, maybe a good thing happens to us,” maybe, in some strange way, she could save someone child in the way she couldn’t save her own. Nevermind that the _‘child’_ was going to be a ten foot tall lizard monster someday, "It's creepy in here," there was a mannequin hanging on a noose and another tied to a stake.

      “This whole place is bad juju,” he huffed with more than a little distaste in his tone.

      “Did you really just say ‘juju’?” She laughed, turning away from the body in the bathroom, “Let’s get out of here then, the nest is northwest of here.”

      The trip to the nest took most of the night, and they arrived just as the sun had fully risen. The mother deathclaw didn’t try to attack them when she saw them, nor did she after Sol placed the egg back down on the nest. There was moment of understanding between them, as mothers, and as mothers who had lost a child. Maybe it was in her head, or she was being dramatic, but for the first time in a long time, she felt like something she did _mattered_.

      She took a drag off the cigarette she and Deacon were sharing as they watched the deathclaw tend to her egg tenderly. Sol’s lips twisted as she looked her the scene. They’d killed her mate, who had only been going after their eggs, and she couldn’t stop the rush of guilt that washed over her. It was stupid, they’d been defending themselves, but it still bothered her. She offered the cigarette to Deacon, who took it, but also silently offered something else.

      In his other hand was a holotape. On the front face there was old, faded writing in familiar block letters. ‘ _Hi honey_ ’ it read, and she couldn’t speak as she gently took the tape from his hand. _When had he—_ it didn’t matter. There was nothing she could say that would sufficiently express how grateful she was for the little lump of plastic and circuitry. It was the last piece of the old world she had that was truly hers. Her throat tightened and her thumb brushed over the tape’s barely visible label.

      Her hand slipped into his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! I'm trying to update at least once a week, and I think Friday has kind of become that day! So, that's my plan going forward. If you hadn't noticed yet, I love puns. I couldn't help making one for the museum of witchcraft. This quest always kind of struck me? It was fun to write, and Deacon's a treasure to write about (and a huge fuckin' nerd about books. He's very upset by the state of the books in the museum)
> 
> (Also I'm sorry this is so long!! There just wasn't a good place to split it?)
> 
> I know there was more I wanted to say but I feeling a little foggy and words are kind of hard right now, so! I just wanted to say I love you guys and really appreciate your kudos and comments, I love hearing from you all and your reactions. I don't reply because I'm awkward and lame, but I want to make an effort to do so!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Comments, suggestions, and advice are always welcome! c:


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